


for you, from me

by sunsetozier



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Death, F/F, M/M, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Violence, bi!richie, but there is death mentioned, gay!eddie, mentions a car accident, mentions a lot of things, mentions abuse, mentions depression, mentions head trauma, music is a very important aspect to this fic, not one of the losers, prince!eddie, princess protection program au, there is a fight scene, why do i always put richie through hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-16 12:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: His eyebrows shoot up at the boy that timidly climbs out of the vehicle.That’s not a Princess.[In which Eddie's home is in danger and he needs a place to stay. Or, the Princess Protection Program AU that was not supposed to be this long.]





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, i wrote this before i knew the losers canon birthdays. i can't go back and fix it because it would fuck up the timeline really bad, so y'all are just gonna have to deal with it - which should be easy, 'cause this is a fanfic, which does not have to abide with what is canon.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: this is loosely based off of the idea from princess protection program. it is not a carbon copy and it doesn’t follow the plot of the movie. that being said, it’s was my favorite movie for a few months when i was a kid, and now it inspired this monstrosity so i love it even more.
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE:  
> there are four playlists involved in this fic. they are linked in the fic as they are mentioned, and they are also linked on my tumblr post if that’s how you found this fic. however, if you’d prefer to just look them up on spotify, my username is httpariona and you can do so if you please.
> 
> ALSO: please read the tags!!!
> 
> [finally edited on march 14, 2018, so now there's barely any spelling errors or anything like that]

            The gentle sound of music drifts through the air, delicate chords from the violin mixing elegantly with the smooth melody from the piano, both played precisely as had been practiced. Decorative flowers are placed throughout the courtyard carefully, meant to accent the white silk aisle leading from the doorway to the podium. A herd of employees bustle by, correcting small details as they go, chattering animatedly to one another in excitement.

            “I really don’t see the point in all of this,” Edward Kaspbrak says from the entrance to the courtyard, though he definitely admires the beauty of it as he looks around. “There’s still nine months until my coronation. This seems... unnecessary.”

            To his left, Sonia Kaspbrak hums, her dress form-fitting and beautiful. The crown on her head glints heavenly in the sunlight as she explains, “There’s nothing wrong with being well prepared, Edward. You know that.”

            “I know, but...” he trails off with a sigh, shaking his head slightly. “I understand being prepared, I do. This just feels overdone.”

            “Enough of that,” his mother  _tsk_ ’s, her lips turned up into a condescending smile that makes him shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. She reaches over and grabs him by the elbow, giving him no choice but to be led inside the castle and up the stairs, onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Awaiting them is a man clad in a dark blue suit, hands held behind his back professionally, who flashes a friendly smile as they approach. Sonia returns the smile and releases her hold on Edward to gesture towards the man in a grand introduction. “This is Wentworth Tozier, he’s here to make sure you’re safe.”

            Edward fights the urge to frown, instead shaking the man’s hand with a slight bow, gaze flickering between him and Sonia uncertainly. “Not to be rude, but safe from what, exactly?” He has a feeling that he knows the answer to that question, but the mere thought makes him nervous.

            “It’s just a precaution,” Wentworth assures, tilting his head slightly. “Unfortunately, there are people who may want to sabotage your coronation rehearsal. In case of emergency, it’s my job to get you away from the danger.”

            The statement makes his stomach clench, but Edward just nods sweetly and says, “Well, thank you for your service, sir.”

            “It’s a pleasure,” Wentworth replies.

            Sonia places her hand on Edward’s shoulder, a subtle sign that she’s used over the years to maintain control over his actions. He stiffens under her touch, but his smile doesn’t waver as she tells him, “I want you to trust Mr. Tozier, alright? If anything happens, you do as he says.”

            “Yes, Mother,” he answers, clasping his hands together behind his back as he gazes down at the courtyard. Below, he sees Ben Hanscom, son to the royal designer, looking up at him with a grin. Suppressing a sigh of relief, he turns back to Sonia and Wentworth and says, “If you don’t mind, I have a few matters to attend to before the rehearsal.”

            Despite the irritation in Sonia’s eyes, she merely nods in dismissal before turning to Wentworth, most likely to go through the security precautions for the millionth time. Edward can feel himself relaxing as he walks away, the tension leaving him in grateful exhales. By the time he reaches the courtyard, he’s genuinely smiling and greets Ben with an energetic, “Hi!”

            “Hey,” Ben responds, a few pieces of fabric draped over his arm as he points towards the castle. “My mom wants you to start getting ready now, so that she has time to make adjustments if need be.”

            “Lead the way,” Edward says with a nod.

            The following hour goes by quickly, with him standing before Arlene Hanscom, turning this way and that upon request to make it easier for her to fix up small details on his suit, whilst making comfortable conversation with Ben. Growing up as the only son to Sonia and Frank, the King and Queen of the small Kaspbrak kingdom, he wasn’t given much opportunity to socialize with the other kids in the village. Occasionally he was allowed to go wandering so long as he had someone they trusted with him, but after his father’s death his mother had tightened the leash and kept him locked inside. He was sure he’d never find a friend close to his age when they hired Arlene as the new royal designer, and with Arlene came Ben, a boy who was double the size of Edward and three times as kind.

            At the age of eleven, Edward and Ben got along splendidly, spending their free time running around the castle and playing whatever games they could think of. Over time, Edward grew taller whereas Ben grew slimmer. They depended on one another growing up, having no other children around to spend time with, and now, at the age of seventeen, they consider each other family.

            “Almost there,” Arlene murmurs, brows furrowed in concentration as she adjusts the top button to Edward’s suit, “that... should... do it! You’re good to go!” She steps back to admire her work, hair messily pulled up into a loose bun on top of her head as she reaches forward and pats him lovingly on the arm. “You look wonderful, Edward.”

            Edward beams, spinning around to examine his reflection in awe. “Miss Hanscom,” he breathes, shaking his head slightly, “you never fail to impress me.”

            Laughing lightly, a sound that rings delightfully in the air and causes a warm feeling to bloom in his chest (much different than the constant discomfort he feels around his own mother, he notices), Arlene says, “Careful, Prince Kaspbrak! One of these days, I just might let you down.”

            “Impossible,” he tells her, smoothing his hands down the front of his clothing with a satisfied sigh. The suit is a deep red with black accents, made of what feels to be a mixture of velvet and silk, with golden buttons that contrast wonderfully against the dark colors. His hair is longer than usual, reaching just below his ears and curling at the nape of his neck in an untamed yet complimentary fashion, his eyes sparkling as he scans his reflection once more before turning around with the clap of his hands. “Okay! How much time do we have?”

            Ben checks his watch. “Just under ten minutes. Shall we?” He steps back and holds open the door, bowing slightly in a teasing manner.

            Edward chuckles and rolls his eyes, swatting lazily at Ben’s arm as he walks by. “Don’t do that,” he scolds. “You know I hate that.”

            Straightening with a laugh, Ben holds his hands up in surrender and defends, “Sorry, sorry! Just trying to get used to treating you like a King.”

            “Don’t,” Edward tells him seriously, giving him a genuine look as he says, “I never want you to treat me like royalty, okay? I want you to treat me like a friend.”

            Ben grins, swinging an arm over Edward’s shoulders to give him a side hug as they walk, promising, “I’ll always treat you like a friend.” The words make Edward grin from ear to ear, leaning into the touch happily as they make their way into the courtyard to see that everyone else is already there.

            Sonia’s eyes narrow down into a glare at the two as she snaps, “Edward, come here!” He complies, giving Ben an apologetic look before ducking away to scurry to her side. She crosses her arms over her chest with an unimpressed glint in her eyes, staring him down as she asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

            “I was getting my suit adjusted,” Edward responds, holding out his arms to present his wardrobe proudly, but she doesn’t bother looking. Confused, he takes a small step back and questions, “Why? What’s wrong?”

            Features softening, Sonia sighs and leads him to the side of the courtyard to make sure no one can hear her as she murmurs, “I’m just... concerned, alright? You know I have no problem with you being gay, but there’s a reason I hired Mr. Tozier to come today. You know some of the other kingdoms on the island aren’t okay with it, and I’m afraid they’ll do something.” She exhales shakily, and his heart aches in his chest — this is the mother he knew as a child, before his father died. This is the mother he only sees in short moments before she returns to the overprotective and controlling woman she became. He misses this version of her every single day.

            “I understand,” he tells her softly, grabbing onto her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “I’ll be okay, Mom. I promise.”

            She smiles and returns the gesture. “I know you will be.” Releasing his hand, she smoothens out the front of her dress with a deep breath, nodding once before stating, “Alright, let’s get ready!”

            Coronation is eerily similar to a wedding, Edward notices upon listening to the directions he’s given. There will be music, there will be a crowd of people watching, and he will walk down the aisle to receive what is realistically an overpriced accessory. His actual coronation is, like he said earlier, nine months down the road, a few short weeks after his eighteenth birthday, but the Kaspbrak kingdom prides itself in being prepared for everything, hence having a rehearsal so far in advance.

            For the rehearsal, he will not be putting the crown on, as it is tradition to first wear the crown on the day of your coronation. The violin and the piano are placed in the corner of the courtyard, the musicians instructed to play soft and elegant as he makes his way down the aisle. His mother shows him the odd walking pattern expected of him, which only adds on to how similar this feels to a wedding. It makes sense, though — he’s marrying the responsibilities that come with being a King. A heavy burden, that is.

            Finally, after talking through each step and proving that he knows the proper way to walk, the rehearsal begins. It’s a bit awkward, seeing as everyone is watching him intently for any errors or mistakes that need to be ironed out, but it doesn’t last too long. Soon enough, he’s kneeled by the podium at the end of the aisle, listening as the director of the event murmurs, “And this is where the Queen’s speech will be given,” as if mapping out each moment in his head. Sonia steps forward, as she would if she were giving said speech, but instead of talking she looks to the director and awaits instruction. He waves his hand once to signal she step back, which she does, looking a bit annoyed. “Then,” the director goes on, “I will ask if there are any objections to Prince Edward becoming King— “

            “That’s where I come in,” a voice interrupts, harsh and cold. A shiver runs down Edward’s spine as he looks over his shoulder, features morphing into a look of fear as Robert Gray takes slow, deliberate steps down the aisle, his smile wide and chilling. “The Prince is not fit to be a king.”

            Sonia comes forward, placing a protective hand on Edward’s shoulder as she grits out, “ _Leave._ ”

            Robert juts out his lower lip into a playful pout, coming to a stop halfway down the aisle and raising his hands in faux surrender. “That’s not a nice way to welcome a guest,” he practically purrs, meeting Edward’s gaze with a smirk.

            A hand comes down on Edward’s other shoulder, and when he looks up he sees the hardened features of Wentworth looming over him. “Come with me,” he says lowly.

            Edward turns to face his mother, who only nods and tells him, “Go.”

            “Okay,” he breathes, scrambling up from his knees and allowing Wentworth to guide him hastily from the courtyard. He doesn’t dare look back at the commotion behind him, though he can hear voices rising in volume and the sound of what he assumes to be a fight. Fear strikes his heart in icy blasts, making his breathing go shallow as he follows Wentworth into the castle, down multiple flights of stairs, and out into the garden.

            To his surprise, there’s a helicopter awaiting them. He staggers to a stop in shock, only to be tugged along by Wentworth until they reach it. Limbs shaky and uncooperative, it takes a minute for him to get into the back, but as soon as he’s in Wentworth follows and the door is pulled shut.

            Gasping for air, Edward hunches his shoulders and leans his head against the window, the cool glass contrasting greatly against his overheating skin. Tears burn in the corners of his eyes as the helicopter lifts off the ground, and within minutes the castle he grew up in is merely a dot in the distance.


	2. during

_The moment the phone went off, Richie knew._

_Wentworth’s gaze flickered down to the device on the counter before returning to his son, conflicted on whether or not to pick it up. Richie nearly scoffed, but managed to suppress it as he grabbed the phone and shoved it against his father’s chest forcefully, spitting out, “Jesus, just fucking answer it!”_

_“Richard,” Went warned, his eyes narrowing down into a frustrated glare. He looked down at the phone again, this time taking it into his hands and pressing answer. He gave Richie a firm look and said, “Wait here,” before walking into the living room to talk._

_Richie did scoff this time, though he obeyed orders and stayed put in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter with a sigh. He took his glasses off to rub tiredly at his eyes, wishing that this constant exhaustion that plagued him would leave him be for just one night. It was wishful thinking, he knew — the exhaustion hadn’t gone away in four years, why would it be kind to him now? A delirious laugh threatened to spill from his lips, emotionless and bitter, but he managed to swallow it down before his father returned to the room with a grimace. Sliding his glasses back onto his face, Richie stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest, asking, “How long?”_

_Went hesitated, stuffing his phone into his back pocket before mirroring his son by crossing his arms over his chest and answering, “Three days.”_

_“Cool,” Richie nodded, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. “Will I get money for food this time, or should I just go to the Denbrough’s and mooch off of them ‘cause you can’t even pretend to care?”_

_There’s a moment where Went’s jaw clenched, causing a flicker of fear to flash in Richie’s brain, but the man just pursed his lips and pulled out his wallet to hand over fifty bucks. “I have to leave in the morning,” he said, “but we’re talking about this when I get back. Deal?”_

_It felt weird, seeing his father act like an actual dad. Richie furrowed his brow and, too overwhelmed by the change in demeanor to come up with a snarky response, replied with a short, “Yeah, sure.”_

_“Three days,” Went repeated, something akin to determination in his eyes. Richie hoped, god he hoped, that this was a good thing; that maybe, somehow, his father was finally going to be a proper parent again. “I’ll be back by the time you get home from school Friday, and we’ll talk.”_

_“Okay,” Richie said. “Okay, yeah. We’ll talk.”_

 

 

 

 

            It doesn’t surprise him, really, but it still hurts a bit when Richie steps out of Bill’s car and his dad’s Jeep is nowhere in sight. With a heavy sigh, he turns around to wave goodbye to Bill through the window, who’s giving him a sympathetic smile as he drives away, before trudging his way up the porch steps and inside. The house is eerily silent, as it usually is, even when his father is home, but it never fails to send a shiver down his spine. He tosses his backpack on the couch, features strained as he takes in all the dust that has accumulated over the past few days that he spent at Stan’s house, and no. No, he’s not waiting in here.

            Huffing in irritation, both at his father for failing to keep his word and at himself for getting his hopes up, he spins around to storm back outside, already yanking his pack of Camels and lighter out of his back pocket. Sitting on the front port steps, he pulls out a cigarette and places it between his chapped lips, knee bouncing as he uses his hand to block the wind and lights it. Inhaling deeply, he lets the familiarity of the smoke burning his lungs comfort him as he pulls his phone out of his pocket to pass the time, taking the occasional drag as he checks his texts, only finding two from Bill.

 **_Bill:_ ** _sorry you’re dad’s not there yet_

 **_Bill:_ ** _he’s an ass_

 **_Richie:_ ** _you’re not wrong_

 **_Bill:_ ** _we should just kill him tbh_

 **_Richie:_ ** _i mean_

 **_Richie:_ ** _not saying no but how would that help exactly_

 **_Bill:_ ** _then you can just move in with me_

 **_Richie:_ ** _can’t i do that without murder_

 **_Bill:_ ** _...that doesn’t sound as fun tho_

 **_Richie:_ ** _you worry me billiam_

            Breathing out a chuckle, he screenshots the texts and sends the picture to his group chat with Stan and Mike with the comment  _come collect your man_. He expects something funny in return, which is why he’s surprised by the genuine response from both of the boys.

 **_Stan:_ ** _you’re dad’s not there yet??_

 **_Mike:_ ** _i’m sorry richie, i know you were really excited about this :/_

 **_Stan:_ ** _he’s such a dick. you deserve better_

            Unsure of how to reply, he opts to leave them on read, turning his screen off and shoving his phone back into his pocket with a shaky exhale. He stubs out his cigarette and immediately goes to light another, but freezes with the lighter poised at the ready when he hears the sound of gravel crunching in the distance. Pushing himself to his feet, unlit cigarette still dangling from his lips, he waits on baited breath as the sound gets closer and closer until, finally, he sees his father’s old jeep turn the last corner and into their driveway.

            Through the windshield, Richie can see two figures in the front seat — one of them, the one behind the wheel, being his father. The other he can’t identify from this distance, but he’s already aware that he won’t know who they are.

            It isn’t the first time that his father brought home a troubled princess in danger, allowing them to stay at the Tozier household until it’s safe for them to go home. It’s happened three times before, so he already has a rough idea of how to handle the situation when he inevitably has to be the one to take care of them and get them adjusted to living in a town like this, even if it’s just temporary. Sighing softly, he raises his hands to light the cigarette still placed between his lips, watching carefully as the Jeep comes to a stop a few feet away.

            His eyebrows shoot up at the boy that timidly climbs out of the vehicle.  _That’s not a Princess._

            “Richie,” Went greets curtly as he rounds the Jeep.

            “Dad,” he replies, frowning as he tears his gaze away from the boy and glares at his father. “You’re late.”

            Went shrugs, as if it isn’t really a big deal, and Richie almost snorts at that.  _Of course, he probably doesn’t even remember our deal_ , he thinks bitterly, taking a long drag as Went gestures to the boy and says, “This is Edward. He’s gonna stay with us for awhile.”

            “Yeah, I know the drill,” Richie murmurs, tossing the cigarette onto the porch and stubbing it out with the heel of his shoe. Went, apparently satisfied with the introduction, grabs his bag from the car and hurries inside without another word. Rolling his eyes, Richie hops down the front porch steps and sticks out his hand. “I’m Richie.”

            Hesitantly, the boy reaches forward and shakes his hand. “Hi,” he breathes, brows furrowed. “He already said it, but I’m Edward.”

            Pursing his lips, Richie shakes his head and says, “Nah, Edward’s way too formal for Derry.” Withdrawing his hand, he offers, “Could I call you Eddie instead?”

            “I, uh...”

            “You don’t have to,” Richie assures, raising his hands in front of him as if presenting a peace offer. “Just- my name’s Richard, but who wants to call a seventeen-year-old Richard, right? So I go by Richie, and I think it’ll be easier for you to blend in better if you go by Eddie, or just something more casual, y’know?”

            Edward frowns slightly, though it’s clear he’s pondering the idea as his gaze shifts slightly to the left in thought. After a long moment, during which Richie is starting to wonder if he could have his mouth surgically removed before saying another stupid word, he finally nods. “Alright,” he agrees. “I’m okay with Eddie.”

            Richie can’t help but smile as he responds, “Okay, cool!” Clearing his throat, he makes his way to the Jeep and grabs the two bags shoved into the backseat, tossing one over his shoulder and gripping the other tightly in his left hand. “C’mon then, Eddie, let me show ya’ to your room.”

            One of the first things he learned about having Princesses (or a Prince, in this case) seek refuge at his house is that he should not ask what danger they’re in. His father had been very clear about that, demanding that Richie did not utter a single word concerning the state of their homes unless he was willing to face the consequences. Richie had agreed breezily, only to turn around and ask the first Princess (a girl named Rosie, who had stayed with them for a few months) exactly what he wasn’t supposed to. He sported a bruise on his cheek for weeks after that, but in a weird, twisted way, he had been proud of it.

            The point is, Richie is not supposed to ask, per his father’s request. In the previous three cases, he ignored that request and asked anyway, just to rile up a reaction, but this time he seems unable to form the words. Maybe it’s because it’s a Prince rather than a Princess, or maybe it’s because Eddie already looks oddly broken in a subtle sort of way. He isn’t sure why, but all he can manage to do is swallow thickly as he leads the way down the hall, pushing open the door to the guest room with a sheepish smile.

            “It isn’t much,” he apologizes, setting Eddie’s bags on the floor besides the bed. He grimaces at the dust coating every visible surface and adds, “I can clean it up tomorrow, or tonight, if you want. No one’s been in here in awhile, so...”

            Eddie takes a careful step into the room, as if expecting something horrible to happen. When nothing does, he visibly relaxes and finishes crossing the way to the bed, timidly perching himself on the end of it with a nod. “This is more than enough,” he says. “Thank you, Richie.”

            Waving a hand dismissively, Richie responds, “No need to thank me! My dad’s job is just to get you somewhere safe, and once you’re here it’s my job to get you settled in.” It’s then that he notices the way Eddie’s watching him closely, not necessarily scrutinizing but definitely intent, as if trying to figure him out just by looking. Richie shuffles his feet and flushes a bit under the gaze, ducking his head as he adds, “Really, it’s no problem. Speaking of my dad though, I should give you a bit of a warning, he’ll probably be gone a lot.”

            “Gone?” Eddie asks, brows furrowed.

            “Yeah,” Richie nods, “gone. He only goes off saving royalty every few months or so, but when he’s not doing that, he’s just a dentist. He says he works late, but he just avoids coming home as long as possible, so we’ll probably have the house to ourselves a lot.” Casting his gaze downward, he murmurs, “Sorry if that’s not what you expected.”

            Shaking his head, Eddie replies, “No, it’s alright. To be completely honest, I’m a little relieved. No offense, but Mr. Tozier- ah, your dad, I mean- he kind of makes me uncomfortable? I’m not sure why, but he does.”

            “Oh,” Richie says, pleasantly surprised. With the Princesses from before, they’d all adored his father, saying that they wouldn’t trust anyone other than Wentworth because that’s what their parents had told them to do. They’d also been severely disappointed to find that Went hardly ever came home. Lips twitching into a small smile, Richie opts to change the subject, sitting on the bed beside Eddie. “Okay, onto important matters of business. How tech-savvy is your country?”

            Eddie frowns, confused. “Pardon?”

            “Technology,” Richie explains. “Like, do I have to teach you how to use basic technology or do you already know? Do you guys have cell phones? Laptops? TV’s? Fill me in.”

            Eddie’s eyes light up in realization. “Oh! Um, we have TV’s, computers, and phones, but not cell phones ‘cause there’s no cell service. The company gave me one, though–” he bends over and opens the side pocket on one of the bags, pulling out a brand-new iPhone 6 and a charger, “—but I have no clue how to use it.”

            Taking the phone from Eddie’s hands, Richie holds the power button down until the Apple logo comes on screen. “If you’re used to computers and shit, then it should be easy for you to figure out a phone,” Richie assures as they wait for the device to turn on. “I’m just glad you know anything, really. The second person my dad brought back, her name was Bridget, and she had no fucking idea what any of this was. I had to teach her everything, but by the time she left she was a pro.”

            “If you don’t mind me asking,” Eddie says timidly, “how many other’s have been here before me?”

            “You can ask whatever you want,” Richie tells him as the phone finally powers on. “There’s been three Princesses, before you. You’re the first Prince.” Looking down at the phone, he holds it out and says, “They already set it up before you got here, so I need you to put your thumb on the home button to unlock it.” Eddie hums thoughtfully, doing as requested as he mulls over another question that he’s unsure whether or not to ask. Richie, as if sensing this, adds, “Seriously, though. You can ask anything. I’ll be honest.”

            Sighing softly, Eddie twiddles his finger together in his lap before going for it. “How long will I be here?”

            Richie freezes, thumb hovering over the App Store as he purses his lips and looks up at Eddie, eyes slightly squinted. “It depends,” his answers after a moment, words a little slow as he tries to think of the right way to respond. “For the first Princess, Rosie, it was a few months. For the third one, Taylor, it was a couple weeks. Bridget, however...” he trails off, contemplating whether or not to be truthful, but he promised to be honest so, albeit reluctant, he admits, “Bridget was here for a little over a year.”

            The silence that follows is far heavier than it should be. “Oh,” Eddie mutters, staring at the wall but not really seeing it.

            “It was by choice,” Richie tells him. “She didn’t want to leave, so she just... didn’t.” Eddie doesn’t respond to that, but there’s a curiosity in his eyes that makes Richie go on to elaborate, “The company doesn’t tell you this because they know your kingdom will want you to come back, but it’s your choice. They can’t make you, and if you want to stay wherever you are then you can. For Bridget... she didn’t want to be royal, she never did, so when she found out she didn’t have to go back the choice was pretty clear. She stayed with us until she had enough money for a plane ticket, and then she left. Moved to California, I think, maybe New York. I’ve seen her in a few commercials since then.”

            Eddie doesn’t say anything for awhile, leaving Richie to tap his fingers nervously against the back of the iPhone as he goes to download Spotify, logging into his account as soon it’s done. Eventually, Eddie breathes out, “Okay.”

            “Okay?” Richie questions, a bit anxious.

            Nodding, Eddie repeats, “Okay.”

            “Okay,” Richie says, relieved. “Uh- here–” he hands the phone over, “I downloaded Spotify for you.”

            Looking down at the device, Eddie asks, “What’s it for?”

            “Music,” Richie answers. “I don’t know what kind of music you listen to, but if you’re gonna live with me then you have to get used to a very broad spectrum of genres. This—“ he taps on the screen, going to a playlist called [ ** _song rec’s_**](https://open.spotify.com/user/httpariona/playlist/6srC0KXnaQSn3LR6ShbphU?si=DHM2cX4rRtWARVboJ3giGw), “—is a good place to start. It’s just a bunch of songs that I think are under appreciated and should be listened to more. I add to it every once in a while.”

            Eddie nods, looking somewhat excited as he scrolls through the playlist, seeing titles such as  _A Shitty Love Song_  and  _Candy Wrappers_  as he goes, as well as something called  _Hello My Old Heart_  that catches his eye for some reason. There’s almost fourty songs on it currently, and he smiles as he scans over them. “Thank you,” he says. “I used to listen to music with my dad, but I haven’t had a chance to listen to anything other than classical in years.”

            “Classical isn’t bad,” Richie points out, “but it’s definitely not my favorite.” Eddie nods in agreement, still staring at the playlist like it’s the only thing that matters. Gnawing on his lower lip, Richie asks, “Hey, uh- are you hungry? I can go make us something for dinner, if you want, or have one of my friends bring us something to eat since all we have is Mac n’ Cheese.”

            “That sounds great,” Eddie says.

            Richie grins. “Okay, Mac n’ Cheese it is!” With that, he reaches over and presses the  _Shuffle Play_  button, the opening strum for  _I Love You So_  by The Walters filling the room. “You can come to the kitchen with me, or you can wait here and I can come get you when it’s done. It’s up to you.”

            Pursing his lips in thought, Eddie decides, “I’ll go with you,” as he presses the power button to turn the screen off. He pushes himself to his feet and waits for Richie to stand before adding, “But, um- can you show me where the bathroom is, first?”

            “Oh!” Richie exclaims, smacking a hand against his forehead. “Shit, I forgot to show you where everything is when we came inside! Come on.” He gestures for the shorter boy to follow him out of the room, gesturing to the slightly ajar door across the hall. “That’s the bathroom,” he says before pointing down the hall to his right, “and the kitchen is just down there. You do your business, I’ll go put the water on, and I’ll give you the full tour of the house after we eat. Sound good?”

            “Perfect,” Eddie agrees with a nod. Richie jokingly salutes before scrambling to the kitchen, and Eddie watches him until he’s out of sight. With a sigh, Eddie pushes open the bathroom door and steps inside, flicking the light on before closing and locking the door behind him. The bathroom is fairly adequate, small in size with a clutter of items on the counter, but he pays it no mind as he gazes at his own reflection intently.

            The company, the one that Wentworth works for, had been adamant on giving him some kind of makeover to help him blend into a crowd. They’d given him a new wardrobe (which he actually quite likes, as it consists of warm sweaters and form-fitting jeans, along with other items that are soft to the touch) and insisted on giving him a haircut. Thankfully, he’d managed to convince them to just trim the ends, making it an inch or so shorter than it had been before, but still he runs his fingers through the curls (not as curly as Richie’s hair, he notes) and wonders how he should react to it all.

            He feels like he should be screaming and crying until his throat is raw and his mind is numb, until his body caves in on himself and he becomes a black hole of anguish. Instead, as the music continues to filter from the speaker of the phone and through the air — a different song now, soft and sad, with a sweet-sounding voice accompanied by piano;  _Terraform_  by Nova Amor, it says when he turns the screen on to check — his lips twitch into a small, genuine smile.

            When he makes his way into the kitchen a few minutes later, after having stood and listened to the entirety of  _Terraform_  in awe, Richie is standing by the stove and staring down at his phone with his eyebrows drawn together. Eddie comes to a stop a few feet away, the sound of  _A Shitty Love Song_  filling the room, and Richie looks up at him with a conflicted glint in his eyes. Gently, Eddie asks, “Is everything alright?”

            “I have a question, and you can say no,” Richie says, bringing up a hand to thumb at his lower lip. There’s a nervous energy to him that makes Eddie both concerned and uneasy. “Would you be alright with one of my friends coming over? She- uh, I won’t say, ‘cause that’s her business, but she can’t stay at home tonight. If not, it’s totally fine! She can go to Bill’s or something, but she usually comes here and–”

            “Richie,” Eddie interrupts, setting his phone on the counter as he steps forward. “I don’t want to interfere with your life. You don’t have to ask for my permission.”

            Brows furrowing, Richie explains, “Yeah, but until further notice, my life is your life. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by having people you don’t know over. This is your home, too.”

            Eddie can feel warmth spread in his chest, his features softening as he shakes his head in disbelief. Swallowing thickly, he says, “I’m fine with her coming over. Thank you.” After a brief pause, he adds, “For being so considerate and thinking of me, I mean.”

            “Don’t thank me for being a good person,” Richie retorts, though his grin is blinding.

 **_Richie:_ ** _you can come over!!_

 **_Richie:_ ** _warning, my dad came back with royalty_

 **_Beverly:_ ** _ooo, will i finally get my hot princess girlfriend??!_

 **_Richie:_ ** _not likely, considering he’s a prince, not a princess_

 **_Beverly:_ ** _oooh, a prince you say? interesting..._

 **_Richie:_ ** _shut up and get your ass over here, marsh_

 **_Beverly:_ ** _i’ll be there in ten, trashmouth_

            “She’ll be here in ten minutes,” Richie announces, gently tossing his phone onto the counter before facing the stove to check on the water. “Mac n’ Cheese should be done by then, if the water would just fuckin’ boil already.”

            Eddie chuckles, hesitating for a moment before pulling himself to sit on the counter top, opening his phone to look through the playlist. “I like these songs so far,” he comments, pursing his lips as he reads through the titles, eyes once again lingering on  _Hello My Old Heart_. “Some of them are kinda sad, but really pretty.”

            “Here, let me–” Richie plucks the phone from Eddie’s hand and goes back to select a different playlist, pressing  _Shuffle Play_  before handing the phone back. “These ones aren’t sad,” he explains. “They’re songs you can’t help but dance along to.”

            Eddie looks down to look through the playlist, titled [ ** _good feeling_**](https://open.spotify.com/user/httpariona/playlist/5UVSkCRsLbzrv4fXiQ3T0n?si=6FaB8jdKRDS9pNef6D8sLw), as the upbeat tune of  _I Wanna Get Better_  by Bleachers replaces to gentler one of the previous song. This playlist is shorter than the first, though not by much, but he has a feeling that Richie adds to it slowly as he said he does with  _song rec’s_. Slowly, Eddie finds himself bobbing his head along to the music, chuckling as Richie starts to sway his hips with the beat over-dramatically. After pouring the macaroni into the pot of boiling water and stirring, he spins around and starts to sing along, holding the wooden spoon in his hands like a microphone. “You look ridiculous,” Eddie says, shaking his head.

            “Probably,” Richie agrees with a shrug, “but I’m having fun, so I don’t care. Now, dearest Edward, Prince of wherever the fuck you came from–” he bows, one hand outstretched in an offer, “—would you please accompany me in this ridiculous dance?”

            Rolling his eyes, Eddie accepts the offer and slides off the counter. “Kaspbrak,” he tells Richie offhandedly, to which Richie gives him a confused look. “Where I’m from,” he explains, dropping Richie’s hand to reach out and skip to the next song. “It’s just called the Kaspbrak kingdom. It’s my last name.”

            “Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie muses, as if testing the name, before giving a satisfied nod.

            “Richie Tozier,” Eddie replies. “Didn’t you bring me down to dance?”

            Grinning, Richie grabs onto Eddie’s hands and starts shimmering his shoulders in a way that he knows looks horrendously stupid. “That I did,” he says, spinning a laughing Eddie with one hand as  _Midnight City_ begins to play. He reaches over and turns it up to full volume before grabbing his own phone to shoot Beverly a quick text.

 **_Richie:_ ** _just come in when you get here, we’re having a dance party in the kitchen_

            “Alright, Kaspbrak,” Richie says once the text is sent, spinning around to face Eddie, “lets boogie.”

            Eddie’s nose crinkles. “Did you just say  _boogie_? Richie, it’s 2018.”

            “Hey, don’t judge my vocabulary,” Richie defends with a huff, cocking an eyebrow challengingly. “Now are you gonna dance or not?”

            Shaking his head, Eddie shoots back, “I’m waiting for you to start.”

            “I already danced,” Richie states simply. “Now you have to woo me with your incredible moves.”

            “Fuck off,” Eddie laughs.

            Richie’s eyes light up as he reaches forward to throw an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “You curse!” he exclaims, as if it’s somehow a ground-breaking discovery. “You said fuck!”

            “I’ll say a lot worse if you don’t start dancing,” Eddie threatens, though he knows it doesn’t make sense and isn’t really even much of a threat in the first place.

            Grinning cheekily, Richie asks, “Is that a promise?”

            “Let the poor guy go, Trashmouth,” a voice interrupts from the doorway. Unfazed, Richie spins around (Eddie involuntarily goes with him, due to still being trapped under his arm) to see Beverly entering the kitchen with a bag in one hand and her phone in the other. Excitedly, he parts his lips to greet her, only to snap his mouth shut as his eyes narrow down on the slight discoloration around her left wrist. She sees him looking and sighs, saying, “It didn’t get worse than that, Rich. I left before it did.”

            Frowning, Richie nods stiffly, retracting his arm from Eddie’s shoulders as he asks, “You okay?”

            “Better now that I’m here,” she answers honestly, tossing her bag onto the counter and sticking her hand in Eddie’s direction with a grin. “You must be the Prince! I’m Beverly.”

            Eddie looks to Richie in slight alarm. “She knows?”

            “All of my friends do,” Richie responds breezily. “They’re the only ones, though, and I swear none of them will out you. You can trust them, Eds.“

            Perhaps it’s the fact that he has no reason to doubt Richie, or perhaps it’s the sudden use of a nickname (he’s only been referred to as Prince Edward up until this point, and suddenly he has two new names that he can already feel himself getting attached to), but either way Eddie decides to take his word, cautiously reaching forward to shake Beverly’s hand with a soft, “Eddie.” Her grin widens as the song changes to  _Come On Eileen_  and she uses her grip on his hand to tug him forward, spinning him around unceremoniously as he lets out a started yelp.

            “There’s the incredible moves I was waiting for!” Richie laughs, bouncing energetically on the balls of his feet and swaying in time with the music as he takes the (now cooked) macaroni off the stove to drain the remaining water into the sink. It takes a moment, but eventually Eddie starts to relax, letting Beverly spin the two of them around the kitchen wildly. Richie spares the two of them amused glances over his shoulder as he stirs in the butter, milk, and cheese.

            It isn’t until Eddie and Beverly are sitting on the counter with their individual bowls of Mac n’ Cheese that Richie decides to try speaking to his father. Beverly, as if sensing the sudden tension in his shoulders, gives him a gentle smile and murmurs, “Go ahead, Rich. We’ll be good for a few minutes. I won’t even eat your food while you’re gone.”

            “I make no promises,” Eddie tries to joke, but it falls flat. Richie offers a smile and a nod before wordlessly shuffling down the hall. Eddie watches him go with a frown, not sure of what’s going on but very on edge over Richie’s silence. Softly, sounding almost afraid, he asks, “What’s he doing?”

            Beverly hums, slowly chewing her food in thought before swallowing and setting her bowl on the counter beside her. Lifting her left hand, she gestures to the discoloration on her wrist and simply says, “My dad did this to me.” Eddie stares at her, shocked and mortified, but mostly confused as she continues, “He was saying shit I didn’t like, so I grabbed my bag and went to leave. That pissed him off, and he grabbed me and yanked me back inside. He’s done worse, so I wasn’t really surprised, y’know? I just turned around and hit him with my bag until he let go, and then I left, and now I’m here.” Swallowing thickly, Eddie opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Unsure of what else to do, he presses his lips back together, the inside of his mouth dry, feeling like sandpaper. Beverly watches him closely, examining his reaction as she goes on with, “My dad’s a horrible person, Eddie, but he’s always been that way so I’ve always hated him. Sometimes I wish I had a better dad, but I don’t even know what that would be like, so it’s more of a distant dream that I know won’t happen and I’m okay with that. Kinda like when someone wishes they could fly. Does that make sense?”

            “Why are you telling me this?” Eddie manages to ask, his appetite long gone as he stares back at her.

            “When we were kids,” Beverly sighs, “Richie’s house was our favorite place to be, ‘cause his mom, Maggie, she was nice and his dad was funny and we always felt safe here. They let us stay up late and watch scary movies, we could drink as much soda as we wanted and eat our weight in ice cream. It was fun.” She pauses, frowning as she gingerly rubs her thumb against the bruise.  _Rollercoaster_  by Bleachers comes on, the fast pace feeling wrong in contrast to the conversation. “Then, when we were ten, Richie stopped inviting us over. Kept saying his mom wouldn’t let him have friends come by until he got his grades up, but we all knew he got straight A’s. Sometimes I’d run into Maggie at the pharmacy or the grocery store, and she’d ask me why I hadn’t been around in so long, but she always seemed off so instead of telling her what Richie said I just lied and told her I was busy.”

            Eddie can feel his throat closing. Shakily, he murmurs, “I feel like you shouldn’t be telling me this.”

            Beverly looks at him with shimmering eyes and says, “You asked about what he’s doing, and you deserve to know the truth if you’re going to live here, but it’s a lot more complicated than just a short answer. He’ll be back any second, so I can’t tell you the rest right now, but remember this, okay? I don’t really care about how shitty my dad is because it’s all I know. It’s different for Richie. Went hasn’t always been like this, you have to know that.”

            “Okay,” he breathes, more confused and concerned than he was before as he turns to gaze down the hallway, where Richie had disappeared. “Is he alright?”

            There’s a long pause, followed by a sniffle and a soft, “Sometimes.”

 

 

 

 

_Maggie sat on the couch, shoulders slouched and eyes droopy as she stared at the TV. There was some dumb cartoon on, Richie couldn’t remember exactly, but he knew she wasn’t really watching it. He turned off the TV as an experiment. She didn’t even blink._

_“Mom?” Richie asked, taking a fearful step forward. He was still a kid, but at the age of thirteen he was well aware of what was happening to his mother, and the thought scared him. He kicked aside a can of beer and shoved an empty bottle of vodka off the couch, pressing a hand against her forehead. She was freezing. “Mom,” he tried again, panic laced in his words as he lightly tapped his palms against her cheeks. She didn’t stir. “Mom, wake up.”_

_Terrified, he reached forward and pressed two fingers against her pulse point, just like he’d been taught to do in his Health class. He could feel her heartbeat, which was a good sign, but he could tell it wasn’t normal. The thrumming against his fingertips was weak and irregular, sometimes coming to a stop for a terrifying amount of time (ten, maybe fifteen seconds) before returning._

_He called 911, and then he called his dad._

_“Something’s wrong with mom,” he cried into the phone, tears rolling down his blotchy red cheeks as he stared at his mother’s pale figure in horror. Her fingers were twitching, and her breathing had become audibly shallow, though still she remained unconscious. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe it would have hurt if she was awake. He didn’t want her to be in pain._

_Went’s voice was strong and soothing on the other end of the line. “It’s alright,” he had said, though the fear was evident in the way his words came out shorter than intended. “Take a deep breath, son. Can you tell me what happened?”_

_Inhaling sharply, lungs aching in protest, Richie sobbed, “She looks_ dead _! She isn’t moving and her eyes are open and she won’t wake up, but she still has a pulse so I called 911 but I’m so scared, Dad, what if–”_

_“No what if’s,” Went interrupted firmly. “I’m getting in the car now, okay? I’ll be there in five minutes. She’ll be fine, Richie.”_

_There were a lot of things running through Richie’s head in that moment, but above all else, he trusted his father. “Okay,” he nodded, still crying softly as the sound of his dad’s car starting echoed in his ear. “Okay. She’ll be fine.”_

_Maggie never woke up after that._

 

            Richie walks down the hall slowly, timidly, with his hands buried deep into his front pockets as he eyes his father’s slightly ajar bedroom door. Exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm his heart rate, he carefully shoulders the door open to find his father laying in bed, not yet asleep but looking close to it. “Hey,” he murmurs, already doubting his decision to do this as Went rolls over to give him an unimpressed look.

            “I’m trying to sleep, Richard,” Went states curtly, his tone so cold that Richie physically flinches away.

            “Yeah,” he sighs, “I know, sorry. But, uh- I made some Mac n’ Cheese, if you want some?” Went turns and buries his head into his pillow in reply, causing Richie to clench his jaw in frustration. Trying to keep his voice steady, he decides not to beat around the bush and grits out, “You said we’d talk.”

            Went lifts his head to give his son a look of bewilderment and annoyance. “What?”

            “Before you left,” Richie explains, his hands curled into tight fists in his pockets, fingernails digging painfully into his palms. “You said we’d talk when you got back, about... y’know. Everything.” Music drifts into the room from the kitchen, and it’s comforting to know that there are two people (one of his best friend’s and a Prince who he oddly gets along pretty well with) waiting for him to return. Went doesn’t respond, doesn’t even react in the slightest, which urges Richie to ask, “Dad? Did you hear me?”

            “There’s nothing to talk about,” Went says lowly, turning over and pulling his blanket up to his chin. “Get out of my room, Richard. Or else.”

            It’s an empty threat — he’s too tired to do much more than raise his voice and they both know it — but Richie still complies without another word, his heart in his throat as he scurries to the bathroom and locks himself inside. His hands are trembling when he presses his palms flat against the bathroom counter, breaths stuttering in his chest as he squeezes his eyes closed and wills the fear to go away.

            There are many things he’s afraid of. Most of them are normal enough, such as spiders (eight legged fuckers need to stay outside, thank you very much) and clowns (seriously, what’s the point, they’re just creepy), but the terror that fills him in this moment is completely different. It’s not irrational, something that he can talk himself out of; it’s constant and heavy and suffocating, snaking its way down his throat and filling his lungs with lead and coiling around his stomach until he falls to his knees to empty its contents into the toilet bowl.

            Fear of and for his father. Fear that his father will snap and beat the shit out of him one day (he’s gotten angry, thrown a few punches, but never something too serious, and he always apologized after); fear that his father will snap and end up just like his mom (pale and sweaty, her brows furrowed even when she slept, the words  _alcohol poisoning_ and  _trauma_  mingling in the air with Richie’s terrified cry of  _she looks dead_ , but she wasn’t, not yet).

            Richie emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and making a beeline to the sink to get a glass of water. He gulps it down to rid his tongue of the taste of bile, sighing heavily once the glass is empty. Setting it in the sink, he feels eyes burning holes into his back, causing him to hesitate before spinning around with a somewhat forced grin. “Take a picture,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest with a cocked eyebrow, “it’ll last longer.”

 _The Happy Whistler_  fills the silence as Beverly and Eddie look him over uncertainly, and it’s a little unnerving, really, seeing how in sync they already are with one another after having met less than an hour prior. After a tense pause, Beverly sighs and asks, “Are you okay?”

            “I’m fine,” he tells her in as polite of a tone as he can manage. He can tell neither of them believes it, but the topic is dropped after that.

 

 

 

 

            Eddie doesn’t sleep well that night.

            Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the Kaspbrak kingdom disappearing in the distance as the helicopter takes him away, he sees his mother, he sees Ben, and through it all he hears Beverly;  _Went hasn’t always been like this, you have to know that._

 _Like what?_  he wishes he had asked, as the curiosity is enough to drive him mad as he lays alone, watching the hours tick by on the clock by the bed.  _Hasn’t always been like what?_

            He feels like his knows the answer — she had been talking about her father being abusive before that, and he knows the two stories have to be connected — but the obvious truth terrifies him. Oddly enough, it scares him more than the thought of what’s going on at home.

            Home.

 _This is your home, too_ , Richie had told him. It plays over and over in his head until it becomes distorted, the voice no longer belonging to Richie, but to Robert Gray. Instead of giving him a feeling of warmth, as they had when Richie uttered them, the words send a shiver down his spine.

            He rolls over, buries his head into the pillow beneath him, and tries to will himself to sleep.

 

 

 

 

_“How are they taking it?” Edward asked, his fifteen-year-old self trembling in fear as he watched his mother enter the room at a brisk pace. Her emotionless features did little to comfort him, instead making his thoughts spiral further into a blinding panic as he tightened his grip on Ben’s arm. Ben grabbed his hand in an attempt to offer silent support, but he was too overwhelmed and afraid to really register it. If he had, he would have offered a grateful smile in return._

_Sonia lowered herself onto the pristine white sofa opposite of him, her emotionless exterior cracking to show a flash of uncertainty. “The only concern from our people,” she started, keeping her voice level as she spoke, “is how we will keep the bloodline going. Other than that, they’ve been very accepting.”_

_Ben sent an encouraging grin Edward’s way, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “That’s good news,” he said softly._

_Edward could see through his mother’s steeled over features. Inhaling shakily, he murmured, “What is it? Tell me, Mom.”_

_“The people of our kingdom are accepting,” Sonia repeated, brows furrowing as she cast her gaze to the floor. “It’s the other’s that I’m worried about.” Edward sucked in a harsh breath, his hold on Ben’s hand tightening in fear, as his mother explained, “As you know, we’ve never really gotten along with the Gray family, from the Wise Kingdom, but upon hearing that you’re homosexual, King Robert Gray has decided that you are... unfit to be a King.”_

_Ben grimaced and angrily spat, “He’s one to talk after what he did, that bastard!”_

_A humorless chuckle left Sonia’s lips as she nodded in agreement, saying, “True as that may be, Robert Gray is already a King. His people were peaceful until he stated his distaste, and now they’re determined to stop your coronation.” Seeing the fear growing stronger in his eyes, she promised, “We won’t let them hurt you, Edward. You know that.”_

_Swallowing dryly, he stammered, “But- but what if–”_

_“No,” she insisted firmly, more determination on her face than he had ever seen before. “I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I‘ll send you somewhere where none of Gray’s people will find you if I have to. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes,” he breathed, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “I understand.”_

 

 

 

 

            An icy blast of air hits Richie square in the chest as he pulls open large refrigerator door, sending a shiver down his spine. Grinding his teeth, he quickly grabs a carton of milk off the shelf and slams the door shut before sliding the milk into the cart behind him. Eddie watches from where he stands, hands grasping the cart, lips twitching into an amused smile as Richie grumbles a vulgar curse about the how cold he is.

            “Should’ve put on a sweater,” Eddie comments, pushing the cart forward as Richie leads them further down the aisle and making a show of eyeing the taller boy’s loose T-Shirt. “It’s the end of January.”

            Richie casts a glare over his shoulder and states, “Sweaters are for pussies.” Eyebrows shooting up to meet his hairline, Eddie wordlessly looks down as his own attire — a large black sweater and light blue skinny jeans — before raising his eyes to meet Richie’s gaze. Crossing his arms over his chest, Richie smirks and leans forward. “Did I stutter?”

            “Did you really just call me a pussy?” Eddie asks, laughing.

            “I heavily implied it,” Richie says with a shrug, turning back to grab a few boxes of Mac n’ Cheese off the shelf. After second thought (and double checking that it’s the 99-cent store brand — his father had been generous in the amount of money he forked over this morning, but Richie knows better than to be greedy with it) he grabs three more and tosses them into the cart. “There’s a difference.”

            Shaking his head, Eddie muses, “I should be offended.”

            “Are you?” Richie questions, once again leading the way as they move to the next aisle over.

            “No,” Eddie answers. “I know you’re joking.”

            With a grin, Richie comes to a stop in front of the cereal and gestures dramatically to the colorful array of boxes, drawling out, “Take your pick, Mr. Kaspbrak.” Ignoring the ridiculous behavior, Eddie steps forward to examine his choices, eyebrows furrowed as he reads over the bizarre titles slowly. Each one seems more absurd than the last, until finally his eyes settle on something simple and chocolate. Satisfied, he takes it off the shelf and sets it in the cart. “Cocoa Puffs? Solid choice.”

            “I’ve never had it before,” he admits, going back to his place behind the cart as Richie grabs something called Captain Crunch. “And once I turned thirteen, eating cereal was seen as immature, so I haven’t had any in four years.”

            The noise that escapes Richie’s throat sounds like that of a dying man, tied between a gasp of shock and a gurgle of pain, as he grips onto his chest as if physically wounded. “Four years?!” he exclaims, looking mortified. He shakes his head with a  _tsk_. “That sounds like a nightmare! How the fuck did you live without cereal for four years?”

            Eddie shrugs. “I just ate something else.”

            “You say that like it’s easy.”

            “It was,” he says. “At least, for me it was. I was a Prince, sure, but I was still just a kid. I got bossed around and I did as I was told.” They make their way down the next aisle, a bag of chocolate chips and two tubs of chocolate frosting getting thrown into the cart as they go. Eddie raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question it. “My mom told me no more cereal, so I stopped eating cereal. It was just that simple.”

            Richie sighs dramatically, turning around and putting his hands on the cart in order to bring Eddie to a sudden stop. “You’re lucky you’re living with me, kid,” he tells Eddie, glancing down to examine the contents of the cart before looking back up with a wink. “In my house, immature is the norm. First thing we’re doing when we get home is making cookies just like my mom used to make.”

            “Don’t call me kid,” Eddie huffs, though his lips twitch into a smile.

            Cocking his head to the side, Richie asks, “When’s your birthday?”

            “September 6,” Eddie answers. “Why?”

            Richie grins wickedly and does an embarrassing little dance in the middle of the aisle, using his grip on the cart to make Eddie involuntary move side to side as he sing-songs, “Mine’s in August! I’m older than you, which means that I can call you kid if I want.” He throws his hands into the air and spins around dramatically, cheering, “And I’m not the youngest one in our group anymore!”

            “You’re insufferable,” Eddie deadpans, watching the scene with a crinkled nose, cheeks flushing from embarrassment as people cast strange looks their way.

            Richie comes to a stop, looking at Eddie with a lopsided smile. “You sound like Stan.”

            Rolling his eyes, Eddie pushes the cart forward and grumbles, “Let’s keep going.”

            “Yes, sir,” Richie salutes, once again checking the cart before nodding to himself. “I think that’s all we need for food, but we still need to get you school supplies.” Eddie’s nose crinkles, his stomach churning nervously at the thought of attending Derry High School on Monday. He had a teacher that was hired to educate him up until now, and the mere idea of stepping into that kind of environment terrifies him. “I have plenty of paper and notebooks at home, but you need a backpack and pens and all that shit.” After a moment of pause, Richie adds, “Also, folders. And probably a binder. How organized are you with school work?”

            Humming in consideration, Eddie decides, “I like to know where everything is.”

            Nodding, Richie murmurs, “Definitely gonna need some separation tabs then. Alright, uh–” he claps his hands together and scans the area around them before pointing to his left, “—this way!”

            Derry is a fairly small town, so it only fits that the store they’re in is small as well. It takes a total of eight minutes for them to find everything they need, grabbing packs of pens and pencils as they walk down the aisle. Eddie picks a plain black backpack and sets it on top of the pile of items in the cart, ignoring Richie’s insistence that he should get the one that says I HEART DERRY in bold, red letters (“C’mon, Eds! It doubles as a school bag and a souvenir for when you go home!”).

            There aren’t that many customers, which is a bit surprising due to it being mid-Saturday, but Richie doesn’t question it as he marches up to an empty register and unloads their cart onto the conveyer belt. The employee behind the register — an older man with grey hair and what seems to be a permanent scowl on his face — watches with a dead stare. Taking a deep, over exaggerated breath, he reaches forward and starts scanning the items, looking more and more tired with each item. Richie hands over the money hastily, wanting to escape from the man’s sad eyes as soon as possible.

            “Quick question,” Richie says as they’re loading the bags into Wentworth’s Jeep (he has another car that he uses when he’s in Derry, letting Richie use the Jeep when need be). “So, you’re gonna be with me a lot, but that means you’re also gonna be around my friends. You met Bev, obviously, but how would you feel about having all of them over tonight? That way, y’know, you can get to know them before starting school.”

            Eddie purses his lips, helping shove the last of the bags into the backseat before closing the door with a sigh. “I mean...” he trails off, frowning. “It sounds like fun, but I’m just–”

            “You can say no, Eds,” Richie reminds him. “It’s just an idea, and it’s completely up to you.”

            “No, really, it’s a great idea!” Eddie insists, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. “I’m just nervous about meeting people, that’s all. What if they think I’m an asshole ‘cause they know I’m a Prince?”

            Shaking his head slightly, Richie catches Eddie’s gaze with as sincere of a look as possible as he promises, “They won’t assume anything about you, I swear. You already met Bev, and she’s not even the nicest person in our group!” Despite his nerves, Eddie chuckles at that, causing Richie’s features to soften a bit as he adds, “I’m being serious, okay? I wouldn’t be asking this if I didn’t think you’d like them, and I promise they’re gonna love you.”

            Eddie takes a moment to mull over this, gnawing on his lower lip before nodding, murmuring a nervous, “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

 **_Richie:_ ** _good news!!_

 **_Stan:_ ** _i doubt that_

 **_Richie:_ ** _impromptu sleepover at my house so you guys can meet the royalty_

 **_Bill:_ ** _fuck yeah, i’ll be there_

 **_Mike:_ ** _i dunno if i can :/_

 **_Mike:_ ** _i’m supposed to be helping out on the farm all weekend_

 **_Beverly:_ ** _eddie is the sweetest lil bub you guys HAVE to meet him i Love Him_

 **_Richie:_ ** _calm down bev_

 **_Beverly:_ ** _fuck off. eddie is my son now._

 **_Stan:_ ** _you can’t call impromptu sleepovers anymore dumbass_

 **_Richie:_ ** _we’re making cookies_

 **_Beverly:_ ** _are they maggie style??_

 **_Richie:_ ** _ofc_

 **_Stan:_ ** _i’ll be there in 20_

 **_Mike:_ ** _im oN MY WAY_

 **_Bill:_ ** _BEV AND I ARE OUTSIDE_

 **_Richie:_ ** _(((:_

 **_Stan:_ ** _shut up and make sure there’s a batch of cookies ready when i get there_

 

 

 

 

            Maggie style cookies are, as Eddie quickly learns, the snack that Richie’s mom would make for the group when they were kids. It’s simple enough, he realizes — just plain chocolate chip cookies with chocolate frosting on top. However simple as they seem, though, the first bite he takes makes him weak in the knees.

            “Oh my god,” he breathes, staring wide-eyed at the treat in his hand. Bill and Beverly (who had actually been outside within the three minutes of Richie texting them, somehow) watch his reaction excitedly while Richie gets to work on putting frosting on the rest of the cookies from the first batch. The second batch is already in the oven, and Eddie has never felt more grateful for anything more than he does in this moment for the insane amount of cookie dough they have prepared. “Holy  _shit_!”

            Beverly grins, one arm wrapped tightly around Bill’s shoulders as she presses her other hand to her chest. “He likes them,” she fake-weeps, wiping away nonexistent tears. “It’s official, we can keep him!”

            “Seriously, though,” Bill interrupts, rolling his eyes fondly at Beverly’s antics before looking back to Eddie with a smile. “Pretty good, right?”

            Eddie shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth, embarrassingly happy tears stinging the back of his eyes as he enthusiastically nods. The action causes Beverly to release a boisterous laugh, having to fully lean against Bill in order to stay upright. This draws Richie’s attention, who instantly joins in on the cackling upon seeing the frosting smeared on Eddie’s cheeks, which are puffed out from being stuffed with the cookie.

            Even Bill lets out a loud laugh before saying, “Okay, they’re good, but they’re not worth choking over!”

            “You’re such a dad,” Beverly snickers.

            With a scoff, Richie points to her accusingly and says, “You literally called Eddie your son, like, ten minutes ago!”

            “I did,” she agrees shamelessly, releasing Bill to walk over to Eddie and pinch his cheek. “Look at him! I’m such a proud mom!” Eddie’s mouth is still too full of cookie for him to form a response, so he settles for crinkling his nose and swatting her hand away. After a moment, she complies and moves back, swinging her arm back around Bill before stating, “We are the parents of the group.”

            Snorting, Bill shakes his head and tells her, “Please, you know Stan’s the mom of us.”

            Beverly parts her lips to defend herself, only to snap her mouth shut and nod solemnly. “I want to be offended, but you’re right. Damn you, Denbrough.”

            “Love you, too,” Bill coos, grinning as he leans forward to smack a wet kiss against her cheek.

            Eddie, finally swallowing the food in his mouth, watches the scene with a soft smile. After a moment of the two bickering, he timidly steps in to ask, “Sorry, uh- I’m just curious, but are you guys, like... together?”

            Richie snorts so hard that it turns into a cough. He thumps a fist against his chest, wheezing out a mixture of a laugh and a groan as Bill watches him in disgust. Beverly, tuning out the scene altogether, answers, “No, we’re not. I think the universe meant for us to be but then we both ended up being super gay, so now we’re, like, platonic soulmates.”

            “Oh!” Eddie exclaims, eyes brightening. “I didn’t know- god, that’s actually a huge relief.”

            “What do you mean?” Bill questions.

            Eddie waves a hand in front of him vaguely, explaining, “If you guys are gay, then that means you’re probably not homophobic, y’know? And that’s just... really relieving.”

            “So, you’re a  _gay_  Prince,” a new voice interrupts, causing the four of them to spin around to see who it is. Eddie, obviously, has no idea, but the other three grin widely at the curly haired boy. “You’ll fit in with us just fine, then.”

            “First batch of cookies are done,” Richie obnoxiously coos, gesturing to the treats on the counter with a wink. “Just like you asked, Stanny boy!”

            Stan’s eyes widen in what can only be described as pure joy as he strides across the kitchen and grabs a cookie, shoving the entire thing into his mouth with a happy groan. Eddie can’t help but laugh, rubbing the chocolate frosting off his cheek from when he’d done the same thing. Speaking around his mouthful of food, Stan sticks a hand out in Eddie’s direction and says, “I’m Stan, nice to meet you.”

            “Eddie,” he greets, shaking Stan’s hand with a grin. He can’t remember why he was so nervous to meet these people — all of them, at least the ones he’s met so far, have been a complete delight to be around. “There’s one more person coming, right?”

            Richie nods. “Yeah, Mike. He lives on the edge of town, though, so it takes him a little bit longer to get here. Plus, he was probably in the middle of something when I texted the group chat.”

            “Oh!” Beverly perks up suddenly, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “Give me your phone, I need to put my number and add you to the chat. It’s a vital part of being one of us.”

            Although confused, Eddie complies, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and unlocking it before handing it over. She types in it quickly, nodding to herself once before handing it to Bill, who assumedly does the same thing. He passes the phone to Stan, who then hands it to Richie, who does the same as the others before going to Spotify to press shuffle on the  _good feeling_ playlist and handing it back to Eddie with a grin. Eddie returns the smile as one of his favorite songs from the playlist,  _Heroes_  by David Bowie, begins to play (he’s been listening to it nonstop since yesterday, thanks to the headphones Richie gave him, and has heard each song at least twice by now). When he looks down at his phone, he sees that they’ve all added themselves in his contacts and sent texts to their own phones in order to add his number. A moment later, he gets the notification that Beverly’s added him to a group chat named  _the mcfuckin losers._

            He snorts, eyebrows rising as he glances between the four of them. “Anyone up to explaining the name to me?”

            “We were at McDonalds,” Richie supplies.

            “Doesn’t help,” Eddie tells him, “but thanks.”

            Richie shrugs with a shit-eating grin. “I’m here to assist,” he says with an over exaggerated bow. Stan, without bothering to look up from his phone, reaches over to punch him in the shoulder. Richie yelps, rubbing the spot with a pout and whining, “Stanny, what the fuck! I made you cookies!”

            “Shit, you’re right,” Stan deadpans, still not tearing his gaze away from the screen as he grabs a cookie from the counter and takes a back. “Thanks. You’re still a fucking moron, though.” Finally glancing up, his informs the rest of them, “Mike‘ll be here soon. Check the group chat.”

 **_Mike:_ ** _oh shit i haven’t even met him yet and he’s already in the gc??? you must be pretty great then, eddie_

 **_Mike:_ ** _anyway, i’m gonna stop at the gas station around the corner, does anyone want anything? drinks? snacks?_

 **_Richie:_ ** _i request their finest fidget spinner_

 **_Mike:_ ** _anyone other than richie?_

 **_Beverly:_ ** _i could go for some apple juice, if you don’t mind! thank you mike!!_

 **_Richie:_ ** _I MADE YOU GUYS COOKIES STOP BEING MEAN TO ME_

 **_Eddie:_ ** _You conveniently forget to mention that I helped make them._

 **_Stan:_ ** _a soda would be great, thanks mikey (:_

 **_Mike:_ ** _got it! anything else? bill? eddie?_

 **_Mike:_ ** _and rich if you ask for something that isn’t ridiculous then i will gladly get it for you. thank you for making cookies. and thank you for helping him,_ _eddie._

 **_Bill:_ ** _just a soda, thank you!_

 **_Eddie:_ ** _You don’t have to get me anything, thank you for offering though._

 **_Richie:_ ** _oof i have to teach you how to type eds_

 **_Richie:_ ** _and mike if you don’t mind, could you just get like a 12 pack of soda or something? i can pay ya   back once you get here, but that way there’s more for later yk_

 **_Mike:_ ** _good idea!!_

 **_Mike:_ ** _are you sure eddie? i really don’t mind!!_

 **_Eddie:_ ** _Really, it’s alright. Again, though, thank you for offering._

            “Wow,” Bill whistles, putting his phone back in his pocket with a chuckle. “It’s been forever since I’ve met someone who types like that.”

            Confused, Eddie asks, “Types like what?”

            “Y’know,” Richie says, shrugging a shoulder half-heartedly. “Like, proper capitalization, proper grammar, all that jazz.” The confusion must only become more evident on Eddie’s features, as Richie goes on to elaborate, “It’s kind of a thing to type in all lowercase and stuff now. I’ll tell you about it later, don’t worry, Eds.”

            Still a bit lost but not caring enough to ask about it anymore, Eddie just nods and reaches over to grab another cookie, saying, “Alright. You can teach me.” After a brief pause where he takes a bite of the treat, he decides to be go back to the previous topic and states, “So, you two are gay,” while pointing to Bill and Beverly. They both nod as Stan raises his hand, prompting Eddie to point to him as well, clarifying, “You, too?” Stan nods, then makes a show of turning to Richie, who just rolls his eyes at the action. Eddie’s eyebrows raise. “And you?”

            “No,” Richie huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m bi.”

            Scoffing, Stan says, “Yeah, well, Bill and I are technically poly, but he’s not asking for specifics.”

            “If you want to use an official term,” Beverly adds, “then I’m homoflexible.”

            Eddie’s eyebrows furrow together slightly, almost guiltily, as he admits, “I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know what any of those things are.”

            “Bisexual,” Richie starts, straightening his shoulders as he points to himself, “is being attracted to two or more genders. So, I like girls and guys, basically. Polyamory–” he gestures to Bill and Stan, “–is being attracted to multiple people at once. These two are in a three-way relationship with Mike. Homoflexible–” he points to Beverly, “—is kind of on the spectrum of bisexual, but with a heavy preference for the same gender. She can be attracted to guys, but it’s pretty rare. The whole spectrum of sexuality is pretty big, not to mention romantic orientation and gender identity.”

            “Huh,” Eddie nods. “That’s actually really interesting. I was only ever told about people being gay or straight.” Looking to Richie, he adds, “If you don’t mind, I’d like it if you taught me more about this, too.”

            Richie grins. “It’d be my pleasure.” Bill and Stan share a look, no doubt about to start whispering to each other, when they hear a honk from outside and instantly dash out of the kitchen. Richie watch them go in amusement, saying, “Mike’s here.”

            “Don’t tease them,” Beverly scolds. “They’re in love. It’s adorable.”

            “Sickeningly sweet,” Richie nods. “If I didn’t love them, I’d hate them.” This makes Beverly snort, and though Eddie isn’t completely sure what Richie means, he still laughs along.

 

 

 

 

            Mike Hanlon, Eddie thinks, is the human embodiment of a teddy bear.

            He’s tall and muscular, which screams intimidating, but his eyes are soft and his smile is friendly. He shakes Eddie’s hand firmly, his features bright and welcoming, and it shocks Eddie how much he reminds him of Ben. Perhaps that’s why, when they’re spread across the living room floor with some movie playing in the background and Mike asks Eddie to tell them about himself, he replies, “My friend, Ben, he says I’m like one of those small dogs that look neat and posh but can probably kill you if they really put their mind to it.”

            It isn’t exactly what he meant to say, but it makes everyone laugh and gives him a reason to talk about Ben.

            “He’s like a brother to me,” he tells them, staring down at his hands, fingers tangled together in his lap. “We met when we were twelve, and we were the only two kids living in the palace, so it only made sense that we became best friends, right?”

            Mike grins, an ever-constant ray of sunshine and warmth, and asks, “Is he still back home?”

            With a frown, Eddie mutters, “Yeah, he is.”

            “Eds,” Richie says, reaching over to place a hand on his knee, concern in his eyes. “If you want to talk about it, we’re here for you. You’re one of us now, okay? For as long as you want to be.”

            Eddie wants to decline, wants to shove his worry down his throat until it’s gone, but there’s a certain look on Richie’s features that makes him nod instead, words spilling past his lips before he even realizes what he’s saying. Voice trembling, he tells them everything — about him coming out, about King Robert Gray’s reaction, about how the entirety of the Wise kingdom had raged against the Kaspbrak kingdom, about how Robert Gray himself had intervened at Eddie’s coronation rehearsal, about how he has no clue as to if Ben’s okay and how much that scares him. By the end of it, he’s openly weeping, blubbering like a baby as Richie pulls him into a tight embrace and lets him cry against his shoulder, breathing out reassuring words.

            Mike doesn’t join the hug, but he scoots closer and rubs Eddie’s back comfortingly. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but they aren’t scrutinizing or judgmental — they’re concerned, worried. Kind.

            “Sorry,” Eddie murmurs when he pulls away, wiping at his eyes shamefully. He sniffles once, offering a sheepish smile as he adds, “I’m glad I’m here, though. I was worried they’d ship me off to some hell house where I’d be tortured or something.”

            “You’re living with Richie,” Stan points out, smiling cheekily. “Give it a week and you’ll learn that being around him is torture.”

            Richie casts a glare over his shoulder, but the comment makes Eddie giggle. “You’re probably right,” he replies. “Guess we’ll find out.”

            Rolling his eyes, Richie retorts, “Please, my presence is a fucking blessing and you all know it.” This sets off a chain of bickering between the rest of them, a comfortable feeling settling over the room. In the midst of all the voices, Richie leans over and asks, “Really, though, are you okay?”

            “I’m fine,” Eddie promises genuinely. “I just haven’t really stopped to process everything, you know? I think talking about it was exactly what I needed.”

            Smiling, Richie wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and joins in on the conversation. Mike’s hand is still resting gently on Eddie’s back. Anytime someone looks at him, they look happy.

            Here, Eddie feels safe.

 

 

 

 

            Here, however, with Derry High School looming over him on a cold Monday morning, he does not.

            “I think I might die,” Eddie states matter-of-factly.

            Richie, with a reassuring smile, promises, “You won’t die. You might want to after sitting in Pre-Calculus for an hour, but you won’t.”

            Grimacing, Eddie murmurs, “Gee, thanks, Richie. Really, that helps a lot.”

            “Listen to me,” Richie says, placing his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and ducking his head to look him in the eyes. “I have the first three periods with you, and the other losers are in most of them, too. The only class you have without us is English, which is at the end of the day, but I‘ll be waiting for you when the bell rings. If anyone gives you hell, they’ll have to deal with all of us, and by now everyone knows better than to try to start shit.” Squeezing Eddie’s shoulders and grinning from ear to ear, he murmurs, “I got you, Eds. You’re gonna be fine.”

            Fear still makes his heart pound in his chest, but Eddie finds himself returning the smile and nodding. “Alright,” he says softly. “You got me. I trust you, Richie.”

 

 

 

 

_“I love you, Richie.”_

_Bridget McConnell’s voice was merely a whisper compared to the overwhelming sound of people rushing past them. Richie felt his lips twitch into a smile, thinking that maybe he’d done it, that maybe she’d come home with him, but there was a glint in her eyes that made him freeze. “But?”_

_Bridget sighed, clutching onto the suitcase in her hand like it was a lifeline. “But...” she trailed off, avoiding his gaze. “I can’t stay here. You know that.”_

_“So, you’re just- you’re just leaving?” Richie asked, exasperated, panicked. “Okay- okay, fine, I get it. I can understand wanting to leave, but you didn’t- fucking- Jesus, Bridget!” He raised his hands to his hair and tugged on the curls, tears stinging his eyes despite his effort to blink them away. “You didn’t think to fucking tell me? These past few months, you could have- shit! You should have said something!”_

_Bridget watched him carefully, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. “I know,” she said. “I know, but I... I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”_

_Face twisted up in agony and anger, Richie exclaimed, “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ve been- you- I- what the fuck, Bridget?!” He paused, inhaling shakily and bringing his volume down, ignoring the strange looks they were getting from people walking by. Sighing heavily, he murmured, “What was your plan then, huh? Were you just gonna disappear and never tell me?”_

_“No, I–” she cut off with a sigh, gnawing on her lower lips as she checked the time. That simple action felt like a stab to the chest. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t think about that.”_

_He stared at her in bewilderment, taking a pained step back. The girl before him was a stranger, and that knowledge alone made his breath get trapped painfully in his throat. “Okay,” he breathed, numb. “Fine, then. Good luck with whatever the fuck you do, but don’t ever fucking call me. Got it?”_

_“Richie,” she started, strained._

_Richie took another step back, eyes firm and shielded. “Don’t,” he hissed. “I’m done, alright? You go, you do what you need to do, and you never come back.”_

_Tears were rolling down her cheeks, her hands trembling as she pleaded, “Richie, please–”_

_“You just broke my fucking heart,” he said coldly. “Do you get that? I understand wanting to leave. I would have helped you and supported you through it, but what did you do?” He didn’t give her the chance to answer, instead going on with, “You lied to me, you lead me on, you told me you loved me and said we could make it through anything. And I thought you were right, I really did, but not this. Not when you deliberately hid this from me. Not when you were ready to get on that plane and go God knows where without fucking telling me.”_

_A sob ripped its way past her lips, and the realization dawned on her features. She knew, then, that she had really fucked up._

_“So, don’t come back,” he continued. “Don’t call, don’t text, nothing. Not to me, not to any of the loser’s. Do you understand?”_

_Bridget nodded._

_Richie swallowed thickly, his face crumbling to show how broken he truly was in that moment. Tears welling in the corners of his eyes and falling silently down his cheeks, he said, “We would have fought the world for you. You know that?”_

_“I’m sorry,” she cried._

_“Yeah,” he nodded, taking yet another step back, the space between them feeling more like miles than feet. Soon, he realized, they would be miles — hundreds and hundreds of miles of space that would never be closed again. “Yeah, me too.” And with that, he turned around and disappeared into the crowd, pressing a shaky hand to his mouth to muffle the sobs that spilled messily from his lips._

 

 

 

 

            The week passes by without a hitch.

            Richie was tense on Monday, scared that Eddie would be overwhelmed by the chaos that is Derry High, but by Thursday afternoon he seems more or less comfortable so long as he’s with one of the loser’s. This is, in Richie’s eyes, a fucking blessing. He has no problem with taking time out of his day to make sure Eddie’s handling the change okay, but it does make it reasonably easier that Eddie seems to be adjusting well.

            On Wednesday, Eddie tells Richie that he doesn’t need to wait outside his last class of the day anymore, promising that he’s capable of making it outside just fine. Richie, though a bit overprotective (he is with all of his friends, but especially so with Eddie), agrees easily and starts waiting by the Jeep in the parking lot instead. It makes him a bit uneasy, which only proves to scare him. He doesn’t want another Bridget situation, but he can already feel himself growing attached to the boy. But he shoves it away, knowing he has no real reason to be uneasy in the first place.

            Until Friday, exactly a week since Eddie’s arrival, when Eddie walks down the front steps of the school with Nick Madsen by his side.

            Nick Madsen is many things. He’s a Super-Senior, already nineteen and planning on retaking the 12th grade for a third time. He’s a soccer player who prides himself in being less than adequate. He thinks he can beatbox and shows it off at parties where everyone else is too drunk to realize that he cannot, in fact, beatbox, and that when he tries he produces more spit than noise. Most of all, though, Nick Madsen of a fucking manipulative prick and everyone is well aware of it.

            Everyone except Eddie.

            Richie curses under his breath, twirling the keys to Went’s Jeep around his finger as he hurries over the meet the two, forcing a grin as he throws an arm over Eddie’s shoulders and exclaims, “Eddie Spaghetti! I missed you!”

            Confused, with lips tugging down at the nickname (Richie came up with it last night, when they had pasta for dinner; Eddie made his distaste clear, but Richie could see him fighting off a smile, so he decided to keep the name anyway), Eddie slowly replies, “We saw each other in Pre-Calc, Rich. Like, less than two hours ago.”

            “Two hours is a very long time,” Richie shrugs, his eyes scanning over Nick cautiously. A bit reluctant, he nods his head at Nick in a half-hearted greeting and asks, “Whatcha doin’, Madsen?”

            Nick can barely conceal his sneer, nose twitching like some kind of rabbit (except rabbits are cute and Nick Madsen is  _not_  cute) as he offers a fake friendly smile. “Nothing much, Tozier. Just walking this cutie to his car.” He winks at Eddie and Richie suppresses the urge to vomit.

            Cocking his head to the side, Richie says, “Well, that’s nice and all, but seeing as I’m his ride, I think I can take it from here.” Eddie, now looking both bewildered and mildly annoyed, elbows Richie in the side in warning. He pretends not to feel it, instead saluting with a lopsided grin and leading the two away.

            “What the  _fuck_ , Richie?!” Eddie hisses as soon as they’re out of earshot, brows furrowed together as he shrugs Richie’s arm off of him. “Why the hell did you do that? I was trying to talk to him!”

            “He’s a dick,” Richie states simply, unlocking the Jeep once they reach it. Eddie huffs as he slides into the passenger seat, the door slamming shut behind him. Richie starts the car and turns on the heater, telling Eddie, “Seriously, Eds. Nick Madsen is a Grade A asshole. It’s your choice, but I highly recommend avoiding him like the plague.”

            Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, snapping out, “You can’t tell me what to do.” Richie doesn’t respond, but his eyes widen as he pulls out of the school parking lot and takes a left turn to get home. After a tense moment, Eddie sighs and grumbles, “You’re not my fucking mom, so don’t act like it.”

            “Okay,” Richie says slowly, stuck between bursting into shocked laughter and slamming on the breaks to demand that Eddie explains what he means. He does neither of those things, instead inhaling deeply before adding, “Like I said, it’s your choice. I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I’m just saying from past experience that Nick’s not a good guy. You deserve better than him.”

            Scoffing, Eddie grits out, “Like what?  _You_?”

            Which doesn’t really make sense, but it still stings a bit. “Maybe,” is all Richie says.

            “Yeah, sure,” Eddie spits, properly glaring out the window like a little kid throwing a tantrum. “He’s probably a great guy that you pegged as an asshole because he doesn’t deal with your shit.”

            Richie frowns, shaking his head slightly as he asks, “Okay, I get that you’re pissy about me intervening on your talk with him, but is there something else you’re mad about? This feels a lot deeper than it should be. Did I do something else to piss you off?”

            “No, you just–” Eddie groans, squeezing his eyes shut. Richie spares him quick glances as he drives, unsure of what else he can do other than wait, lips pressed together as the air becomes thick with tension. After a moment of heavy breathing, Eddie murmurs, “You’re insufferable,” but any joking tone that he usually uses with those words are gone. It hurts, to be honest.

            Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, Richie turns onto the gravel road leading to his house and says, “Well, I’m sorry, then.” The next few minutes pass in silence, each second feeling longer than the last, until finally they’re parked in the driveway and Richie’s shutting the car off with a sigh. Eddie throws open his door instantly and storms off towards the woods, Richie scrambling after him with a shout of, “Eddie!”

            “What?!” Eddie demands, spinning around with his arms crossed over his chest. “What do you  _want_ , Richie?”

            “If you don’t want to be around me right now,” Richie says, hands held in front of him, “then fine. You don’t know your way around Derry yet and I don’t want you to get lost or hurt or something, so  _I’ll_  go, okay?”

            Eddie’s features soften a bit, but he doesn’t respond, instead nodding curtly before making his way inside. With a heavy sigh, Richie shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking down the road, trying to figure what the fuck just happened and how the hell he’s supposed to fix it.

 

 

 

 

_On hot summer days, with a gentle breeze mussing up his already untamed curls and the smell of someone down the street having a barbecue filling the air, eight-year-old Richie Tozier felt like he could fly._

_Maggie would laugh when he told her this, her grin wide and scarily similar to the one he’d have when he was older. “Flying is far too dangerous,” she said, spouting off a story of a boy who could fly but used all his energy too fast and inevitably fell, and on the ground, nursing his wounds, he vowed to never fly again. “But the feeling,” she added, her voice taking on a low tone of mystery, one that made him lean closer in anticipation. “That feeling he got when he was flying? He said he got that same feeling when he was on a swing set, one just like this, and someone pushed him real high. That way, there was no danger that came with flying, but he still felt free.”_

_“Like a bird,” Richie murmured in awe, sitting down on the swing like it was a gift from heaven. “Stan likes bird.”_

_“Yes, I know,” Maggie laughed again, the sound light and musical. Richie loved hearing his mother laugh, especially when it was in response to something he said. It made him feel accomplished. “Do you think you’d be his favorite bird, if you could fly?”_

_Richie nodded, very serious and business-like as he answered, “Oh, yes. I’d be everyone’s favorite bird, but especially Stan’s. He’d write a book about all the cool things about me, and he’d make a million dollars off of it, and then he’d be rich and he’d love me even more.” He sighed wistfully, kicking his feet once just to feel himself move with the force of it. “I should have been born a bird.”_

_This made Maggie throw her head back in a cackle. Richie beamed at the sound, a sort of smugness on his face that showed how proud he was to have made his mother so happy. “Alright, little bird,” Maggie said through her giggles, grabbing onto the chains of his swing and pulling him back. “Are you ready to feel like you’re flying?”_

_“Yes, Ma’am!” he replied excitedly._

_“Remember,” she told him, “no letting go or jumping off. You have to hold on real tight. Can you tell me why you have to hold on tight, Rich?”_

_He bit back a grin and answered, “‘Cause flying is too dangerous, but swinging is just like flying without the danger!”_

_“That’s my little bird,” Maggie smiled. “Alright, Richie, hold on! I’m gonna push you super high in three... two...”_

 

 

 

 

            “One,” Richie whispers to himself, kicking off the ground and hearing the swing set complain loudly under his weight. He doesn’t bother looking away from the holes in the knees of his jeans as he swings lightly, rocking back and forth in a way that’s both comforting and makes his stomach curl in on itself. There’s a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and he can’t tell if it’s from thinking of the past or if it’s just bile rising in his throat.

            He’s not sure why he chose to come here, of all places. Realistically, he should have climbed back into his dad’s Jeep and drove to one of the Loser’s houses (most likely Stan’s) to talk through what had happened and figure out what he should do. It was an obvious decision, but still his feet had carried him to the old, run-down park that stopped being popular when he was ten-years-old.

            Maybe being here is a bad choice, but maybe he needs to make a bad choice right now, so he stays put, kicking the ground lazily whenever the swing comes to a slow stop and ignoring the way his phone buzzes in his back pocket.

            There are a lot of memories tied to this place. He doesn’t want to think about them, but he does anyway, remembering all the details from his childhood that had blurred over time. He remembers playing on the monkey bars when he was five, arms too weak to swing himself forward but his determination strong enough to make him hold himself up for as long as possible. Mike, already six due to being the oldest in their group, had held Richie’s ankles and supported his weight so that he could cross from one side to the other. Together, the two cheered and hugged, claiming that moment as the biggest victory in the world.

            He remembers climbing the tree by the gate, the one that’s far too big for him to climb, but he didn’t care. He dragged himself to the lowest branch, laying on it for a long time after to catch his breath, before scrabbling up as high as he could go. The park looked so much smaller from up there. In those moments, he felt invincible, like if he jumped off he wouldn’t fall, he would fly, but then he’d remember Maggie’s story about the boy who could fly and chose to climb back down, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to be on the swings.

            He remembers sitting on this very swing at the age of thirteen, head hung low and hair drenched from the rain, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. His whole body had felt so weak that day, heaving for air but never feeling relief as his lungs expanded and complained. The only thing in his head was the same few sentences, repeated over and over as he sobbed:  _if I had done something sooner, if I didn’t let this go on for so long, she’d still be here. It’s my fault. I could have saved her._

            Beverly had found him that day.

            It only makes sense, really, that Beverly finds him today, as well.

            Her footsteps are familiar in a way that only the losers could understand, well-worn boots entering his line of vision as she quietly approaches. She stops just under a foot away, soft voice filtering through the air as she breathes, “What’s going on, Rich?”

            He chooses not to answer at first, instead pursing his lips and kicking off the ground once more, hearing more than seeing as she moves to sit on the swing next to him. They sit in a comfortable silence for awhile, only broken by the sound of Richie’s phone, still buzzing in his back pocket — not as constant now, only every few minutes or so. Eventually, though, he releases a slow exhale and murmurs, “It’ll be four years in July, you know that?”

            “Yeah,” Beverly answers, not having to ask what he’s talking about. She’s probably thinking about that day, too. “Yeah, I know.”

            Nodding slowly, he lifts his head, not yet looking over at her, instead scanning the area in front of him. From here, he can see the monkey bars to his right and the big tree straight ahead, as well as the fake castle that Stan, Bill and him would hide in as kids, peaking out of the big window to watch the birds and the clouds. They’d all gotten in a lot of trouble, back then, for staying out so late, huddled up in that castle with blankets and pillows and snacks, but it was hard for Maggie to stay mad when he pouted and told her that they just wanted to look at the stars.

            He still goes out, sometimes, in the middle of the night. Just to look at the stars.

            “Eddie’s mad at me,” he tells Beverly, finally glancing in her direction. Her hair is still growing out from the last time she cut it to her ears, just barely brushing her shoulders in loose, red ringlets. The freckles that had been so prominent growing up are now a bit lighter, not as obvious but still there, dotting her fair skin with a delicacy that doesn’t exist anywhere else. “I think I really annoy him, Bev.”

            Beverly nods slowly, trailing her gaze across the overgrown grass surrounding them with the same intensity that he knows is reflected in his own eyes. She’s remembering a lot of things, too, there’s no doubt about it. “That’s not the problem,” she states certainly, focusing back on him as she talks. “You’ve never been upset about annoying someone before. What’s really going on?”

            Suddenly, Richie’s hit with the image of that dreadful day again, when he was thirteen and broken and Beverly had found him in pieces. He can vividly picture sitting just like this, with her by his side on the other swing, both of them staring at one another with their faces twisted up in pain. Beverly had insisted he said it, back then — demanded that he tell her what happened, that he tell her the truth that hung darkly over him. He didn’t want to, but he loved Beverly, almost as much as he loves her now, and, for her, he choked out the words. For her, he screamed them into the storm, tears mixing with the rain, the taste of blood on his tongue, his throat raw as he shouted,  _She’s dead! My mom’s dead!_

 _Saying it hurts,_  Beverly had told him that day,  _but it helps._

            “He reminds me of Bridget,” Richie says, eyes glazing over with tears and memories and pain. “I can feel myself getting more attached to him every time I look at him, and it’s only been a week. It scares me.”

            Beverly makes an odd noise in the back of her throat, something like a hum of understanding and a choked off cry, as she reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with being scared,” she reminds him. “You know that. We’re all terrified of a lot of things.” He nods, looking at her but not really seeing her anymore, too lost in his head to focus. Squeezing his shoulder affectionately, trying to pull him out of his thoughts, she asks, “What else is on your mind, Richie?”

            Turning his head, Richie looks at the fake castle and numbly realizes that it reminds him of Eddie. “Dad’s getting worse,” he murmurs, scanning every inch of the castle over and over again. “He sleeps in until he has no choice but to get up for work, and he stays out for days at a time with no warning. There haven’t been any incidents since Christmas, but it’s like he’s not really there anymore. I guess he hasn’t really been there since Mom died, though.” He shrugs half-heartedly, finally dropped his gaze to the ground as he admits, “I think part of him died with her.”

            Beverly lifts herself off the swing and settles on his lap, running her fingers through his hair as he rests his cheek against her shoulder. If anyone were to see them like this, they’d look like a couple, but the two of them know better than that. Richie and Beverly are family, two pieces of a puzzle that can only be completed when the rest of the losers are with them, but still they feel whole when they’re alone. Siblings — not by blood, but intertwined by their souls. Gently, she tells him, “Keep talking, Rich. I’m listening.”

            “I’m terrified,” Richie ghosts out, barely audible to even himself. “I’m fucking terrified, Bev.” He stops there, having to inhale shakily, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his nose against the underside of her jaw, seeking comfort in the touch. She doesn’t respond, instead just continues to play with his hair and waits for him to continue. Eventually, he does. “I’m scared he’s going to end up just like her,” he says. “I’m scared I can’t stop it from happening. I’m scared that I’m going to be an idiot and gets feelings for Eddie and have my heart broken all over again when he leaves. I’m scared of the anniversary of Mom’s death. I’m scared that she wouldn’t like the person I am now. I’m–” he cuts off, tears in his eyes, before choking out, “I’m  _so fucking scared._ ”

            Wrapping her arms around his neck, Beverly hugs him properly, letting him hiccup against her neck as he sobs. “ _Shh_ ,” she soothes, rocking back and forth, the swing moving slightly with them. “It’s alright. You’re okay, Richie.”

 _We’ll be okay,_  thirteen-year-old Beverly promised, hugging Richie to her chest. He almost snorts at the similarities.

            "Here’s what you’re gonna do,” Beverly says once his sobs have reduced to deep inhales and shaky exhales, pulling back to look him in the eyes, her hands cupping his cheeks. “You’re gonna answer your phone, ‘cause that Prince of yours is scared, too, okay? He called me a few minutes after you left and begged me to find you. He might get annoyed, or maybe even angry, but he’s going through a lot right now and it’s going to put him in a bad mood sometimes.” Richie nods, glancing between her eyes as she speaks. “So, you’re gonna answer your phone, and you’re gonna go home and eat dinner and see if you can fix things up tonight. If not, you leave it be, okay? He might not be ready to talk it out yet, but even if you’re fighting, he trusts you, Richie. He probably doesn’t feel safe without you there.”

            “Okay,” Richie murmurs, breathing deeply.

            Beverly smiles at him, wrapping him up in another warm hug, breathing out, “You can get through this, Richie. I know you can.”

 

 

 

 

            Eddie knows he’s being unreasonable. He knows he overreacted and snapped and should probably apologize before it’s too late, but he can’t seem to utter the words around the lump in his throat when Richie returns Friday evening, eyes red and puffy. He can only look, almost in awe, before spinning around and running to his room. He stays in there the whole night, only emerging to eat dinner in the stuffy silence of the kitchen while Richie takes a shower, barely managing to murmur a thank you when he walks by him before bed. Richie doesn’t respond, only nods with a sincere smile that only succeeds in making Eddie feel even worse.

            So, he tries to apologize on Saturday, but Richie only comes out of his room to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner before disappearing behind his door again. Eddie watches him so by like a silent storm, uncertain and wary. He uses the last of the chocolate chips to make enough cookie dough for four cookies and bakes them quickly, leaving them on a plate outside Richie’s door with a note. He tries to write _I’m sorry_ , but what he ends up jotting down is  _thank you for making dinner_. He kind of wants to punch himself for it, but he still watches nervously through the crack in his door when Richie finds the plate, grinning to himself before taking the treats back into his bedroom.

            Eddie doesn’t even bother trying to apologize on Sunday, knowing full well that the opportunity just won’t come. Instead, he lays down on his bed and does his homework, the  _song rec’s_  playlist filling the room. There’s an odd variety of music on this playlist, which is partly why Eddie loves it so much. He enjoys not knowing if the next song will be slow and sad or happy and upbeat. It’s like a nice little surprise, in a way. Depending on what it is, he finds himself either tapping his pencil along to the beat or staring blankly ahead to soak in the lyrics.

            About an hour and a half into this, an unfamiliar song comes on — something sad, but not really slow, more soft and meaningful. Curious, he picks up his phone to see what it is, eyebrows rising when he reads the title that had caught his eye a week ago.

 _Hello My Old Heart_  by The Oh Hello’s.

            He realizes, then, that he never actually listened to it despite the strange curiosity he originally had. Thumbing at his lower lip thoughtfully, he pushes his homework away and restarts the song, listening with an intensity he can’t explain. As the lyrics softly fill the room, he wonders what it is about this song that makes Richie like it.

 _Hello my old heart, how have you been?_  
_Are you still there inside my chest?_  
_I’ve been so worried, you’ve been so still_  
_Barely beating..._

 

 

 

 

            ...at all

_Richie wiped at his eyes angrily, hating the fact that he was still so fucked up from what had happened. He wanted to scream, punch the wall, rip himself apart, but he only huffed and leaned back against the headboard of his bed, eyes squeezing shut as he listened._

            Oh, don’t leave me here alone  
            Don’t tell me that we’ve grown  
            For having loved...

 

 

 

 

_...a little while_

            Eddie’s brows furrow slightly, confusion and curiosity swirling around his head. It’s a good song, very beautiful in a heartbreaking way, but it feels... different, somehow, than the rest of the sad songs on this playlist. It feels like there’s a history behind these lyrics, behind these chords, that he doesn’t know. For some odd reason, he gets the feeling that, whatever it is, it’s vitally important. With that thought, he listened harder, as if what he’s looking for will be whispered through the music.

 _Oh, I don’t want to be alone_  
_I want to find a home_  
_And I want to share it..._

 

 

 

 

            ...with you

_“Fuck off,” Richie groaned, his face buried in his hands as he cried. Every single line, every fucking word, reminded him of Bridget. He could still see her, could see the way she looked as he left her at the airport; he could still hear her promising forever, immediately followed by her telling him she couldn’t stay. “God,” he sighed heavily, “I’m pathetic.”_

            Hello my old heart, it’s been so long  
            Since I’ve given you away  
            And everyday, I add another stone  
            To the walls I built around you...

 

 

 

 

_...to keep you safe_

            Something about this verse makes Eddie’s chest ache in a way he can’t explain. It’s as if there’s a snake wrapped around his torso, constricting his ribs, lungs, everything, until it all feels like a giant, throbbing bruise. He winces, rubbing a hand over the spot where his heart is absentmindedly as the chorus repeats, followed by a much softer verse.

 _Hello my old heart, how have you been?_  
_How is it being locked away?_  
_Don’t you worry, in there you’re safe_  
_And it’s true, you’ll never beat..._

 

 

 

 

            ...but you’ll never break

_Richie snorted at that, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. Never break, ha! As if! His heart, though maybe not old, was definitely shattered into irreparable pieces. Suddenly, he realized that the song was bullshit — complete and utter bullshit, he told himself. A false attempt to capture what being heartbroken truly felt like. However, when the song finished, he played it again, and again, and again, until each line was engraved in his head and he could almost manage a smile._

            Nothing lasts forever  
            Some things aren’t meant to be  
            But you’ll never find the answers  
            Until you set...

 

 

 

 

_...your old heart free  
            Until you set your old heart free_

            “Jesus,” Eddie murmurs as the song comes to an end. His mind is incapable of focusing on just one thing, too many thoughts and questions flying through his brain too fast for him to process. Deciding to come back to it later, if ever, he switches to the next song and pulls his Pre-Calc book back onto his lap.

 

 

 

 

            Nick Madsen is waiting for him by his locker right before lunch the following day. It’s a bit odd, considering the fact that they’d never spoken before Friday, but Eddie tries not to dwell on it as he greets Nick with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”

            “Good morning, Sunshine,” Nick responds, flashing a grin that seems much too artificial for Eddie’s liking. “Have a good weekend?”

 _Not at all_ , Eddie thinks. “It was alright.”

            “Just alright?” Nick pouts, and it’s something that Richie would do, Eddie realizes, but this isn’t Richie and because of that it feels very strange. He shifts his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, keeping his full focus on putting his books in his locker so that he doesn’t have to carry them around during lunch and ignoring the way Nick is watching him. “Maybe we can hang out this weekend and it’ll be better than alright.”

            Eddie has to force himself not to crinkle his nose as he shuts his locker. He isn’t sure why, but something about today is different than it had been Friday. Perhaps the fight he had with Richie made him open his eyes or something, because everything that Eddie had found to be somewhat charming a few days prior now just makes him feel sick. Trying to force a polite smile, Eddie says, “Thanks, but I’m busy.”

            Cocking an eyebrow, Nick leans forward and asks, “Oh, yeah? With what?”

            “Hanging out with friends,” Eddie tells him shortly, going to take a step back only to be met with the wall behind him. He silently curses, scanning the area around him for the quickest exit.

            Before he can make a run for it, Nick brings his arms up to press his palms against the rough surface of the wall on either side of Eddie’s head. He’s so close now that Eddie can smell his breath, and now he can’t help but crinkle his nose in disgust. “You mean Tozier and all those other loser’s?” Nick asks, shaking his head. “They’re a waste of time, Eddie. You should come to a party with me, instead.”

            “Yeah, no thanks,” Eddie grits out, ducking under Nick’s arm and shoving his body forward to knock the taller boy back a few staggering steps. Huffing, he brushes off his clothes and starts to walk away when Nick grabs him by the wrist and yanks him back. Yelping, Eddie doesn’t hesitate to spin around and knee him in the groin, shoving him away as soon as his wrist is free. “Jesus  _fuck_!” Eddie pants, rubbing at his wrist with a glare towards the hunched over figure in front of him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

            “With me?” Nick gasps, slowly straightening, his face twisted up in anger. “The fuck is wrong with  _you_?! What are you, a fucking prude or something?”

            Eddie parts his lips to retort something, only to be interrupted by Nick lurching forward and pressing him back against the wall, their bodies flush against one another. Grimacing, Eddie tries to shove him off, but he only grabs his wrists and pins them to the wall, trapping Eddie’s legs between his and the wall the prevent him from kicking. “Let me go, asshole,” Eddie spits, wriggling as much as he can, trying to find some sort of vantage point to get an arm or a leg free.

            “No can do, sweetheart,” Nick coos. Eddie actually fucking gags.

            “I think he told you to let him go,” someone says, and Eddie has never in his life felt more grateful for another person than he does in this moment for Richie Tozier. The taller boy steps forward, his eyes narrow and filled with anger, and grabs one of Nick’s shoulders to drag him away from Eddie, who sighs in relief.

            Nick glares at Richie, arms crossed over his chest as he faces him. “Get the fuck out of here, Tozier.”

            Richie cocks an eyebrow and feigns a sweet smile. “Is that what I should do, Madsen? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, you were touching him even though he told you not to, and that right there is assault, buddy.” He trails over to Eddie, his eyes concerned as he throws an arm over Eddie’s shoulders. “And, y’know, you’re nineteen, so you’d get tried as an adult. They’re not so friendly with adults in court.” Then, just barely audible under his breath, he leans closer to Eddie and asks, “You okay, Eds?”

            “Yeah,” Eddie nods, glaring daggers into Nick’s skull. “Kinda want to punch him, but yeah.”

            Chuckling, Richie murmurs, “Good. If he hurt you, I’d probably have to kill him.” Glancing down, he sees Eddie still rubbing at his wrist, which makes his stomach clench in a way that tells him he’s about to do something incredibly stupid. Sighing, he tells Eddie, “Text the group chat and tell the losers to come here.”

            “What?” Eddie frowns, looking up at Richie as he withdraws his arm. “Why? Richie, what the hell are you–”

            “Trust me,” Richie says, looking back at Eddie sincerely. “Please.” After a moment of hesitation, Eddie nods and pulls out his phone, typing frantically.

            Nick steps forward to shove at Richie’s shoulder, sneering, “You can’t afford to take me to court, Trashmouth.”

            Snorting, Richie turns back to Nick and  _tsk_ ’s. “Hey now, buddy, that name is for my fellow losers only!” He squares his shoulders slightly, knowing that this is a bad idea, knowing that it’ll most likely go horribly wrong, but he’s already committed to it. So, suppressing another sigh, he says, “Let’s test you real quick, yeah? Someone tells you not to touch them, what do you do?”

            “You wanna know what I do?” Nick asks with a smirk, stepping forward until they’re practically nose-to-nose. Richie doesn’t bother with a response yet, his jaw clenched angrily as he waits for Nick to go on. Softly, he tells Richie, “I make them realize how good I can make them feel. Your boy, Eddie? Pretty sure he’s a prude, but I can teach him.”

            There’s a horribly bitter taste in Richie’s mouth as he spits out, “Wrong answer, dick,” before he swings.

            The next few minutes are a blur in Richie’s head. He can vaguely remember landing the punch directly under Nick’s left eye, and he thinks Eddie yells something when Nick retaliates with a knee to Richie’s gut. He can kind of picture Eddie throwing himself forward and trying to get Nick away from Richie, but suddenly Stan‘s there and dragging Eddie away, but they’re a lot taller all of a sudden, and- ah. Richie’s on the floor. That’s right.

            Mike and Bill both have a hold on each of Nick’s arms, pinning them behind his back with a surprising amount of strength. Richie’s glazed over eyes scan the scene, and he sees Beverly storm up to Nick and promptly kick him in the groin, which would be funny but Richie isn’t exactly processing anything right now. Someone says his name, he thinks, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and Eddie and Stan are in front of him, but he doesn’t speak, he only blinks at them before lowering his gaze to his hand.

            There’s not much evident of the punch yet, but he can tell from the tenderness around his knuckles that it’s going to bruise. Nick’s face is probably gonna bruise, too. Because of him. Because he hit him.

            “Oh,  _god_ ,” Richie chokes out, breath getting trapped in his throat as he looks back at Eddie and Stan. He might be crying at this point, but he isn’t sure. “I’m just like him. I’m just like him.”

            Eddie’s features twist up in confusion and panic, but Stan only looks heartbroken as he leans forward and pulls Richie into a hug. “You’re not,” he promises softly in Richie’s ear. “You’re not like Went. You’re so much better.”

            “I’m like him,” Richie blubbers on, feeling sick. “Fuck, Stanny, I–”

            “Richie,” Stan says, leaning back to look Richie in the eyes. “You are nothing like him. Do you hear me? You’re nothing like him.”

            Richie only sobs, and suddenly Stan’s not there, Eddie is, and he’s clutching onto Richie like he’s a lifeline, rocking them back and forth as they sit tangled together on the floor of the hallway. Richie murmurs incoherent apologies into Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie cries with him, confused and concerned and wishing he had never let this happen.

 

 

 

 

            Stan drives them home.

            Eddie can’t really pinpoint what he’s feeling right now. It‘s like there’s an avalanche of chaos in his head, yet he feels sluggish, as if time has come to an unbearable crawl. He’s afraid to look, but he knows Richie is huddled in the backseat with a blank expression, his knuckles bruised. Knowing that is enough to make his eyes water.

_What the fuck just happened?_

            Well, he knows what happened, but he wishes he didn’t. It hurts to know that he caused this, that if he’d just stopped and listened to Richie instead of being some stubborn asshole then the whole Nick situation wouldn’t have been a problem in the first place. He can’t even remember why he’d gotten so angry — Richie hasn’t tried controlling him, not once, so why the hell did Eddie accuse him of it?

            He wishes, momentarily, that Nick had punched him. He deserves it.

            “I’m going to get some comfort food,” Stan says when he parks in front of the Tozier house. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so.”

            Eddie wants to beg Stan to stay, because he isn’t ready to be alone with Richie, not after all that, he might suffocate on his own lungs, but instead he just nods and climbs out of the car. He can hear Richie behind him, but he doesn’t try to speak as Stan pulls away and disappears around the corner.

            Just as Eddie thinks he might implode, Richie murmurs, “We should go inside.”

            “Okay,” Eddie breathes, wincing at how weak his voice sounds. It’s so tense, so unbelievably tense as they shuffle up the porch and through the front door, every inhale aching in his chest as he tries to force himself to  _just fucking talk, already!_  After a moment of standing, stiff and silent, he manages to choke out, “I’m so sorry.”

            Richie looks at him, brows drawn together slightly. “What? What are you sorry for?”

            “For–” Eddie stops, breathing deeply. “Fuck, for all of this! I was being so unreasonable Friday and I let it get out of hand and- shit, I’ve been acting so stupid, I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a- such- such a stereotypical stuck-up  _Prince_.” The last word feels like a curse when it falls off his tongue.

            Shaking his head, Richie steps closer and ducks his head to meet Eddie’s watery gaze. “Eds,” he starts gently. “You’re not a stuck-up Prince, okay? Yeah, you were kind of being an asshole, but I get it. Moving here, having a complete change in lifestyle in such a short amount of time, you’re bound to snap every once in a while.”

            Eddie tries to protest, “But–”

            “No, listen,” Richie insists. “You have nothing to be sorry for, I promise. But can you do me a favor?” Eddie nods instantly, willing to do whatever it takes to fix this. Richie grins, a bit strained but still genuine, and says, “Next time you get mad at me, don’t call me insufferable like the way you did. And when I tell you someone’s a dick, you should probably take my word for it.”

            A small smile twitches onto Eddie’s face as he shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno,” he muses jokingly. “You can be pretty insufferable, sometimes.”

            Richie hums and nods, feigning a serious expression as he says, “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind next time I go to punch someone for you.”

            “Oh, god,” Eddie groans, laughing. “Please don’t let there be a next time, Rich. No punching people for me. Deal?”

            Waving a hand dismissively, Richie agrees, “Yeah, yeah, fine.” After a moment of pause, he murmurs, “Unless they deserve it.”

            Eddie smacks him on the arm, but he’s too busy giggling to say anything else.

 

 

 

 

_When Richie was nine-years-old, his parents had nearly been killed in a car wreck._

_He was at Mike’s house when it happened, watching some weird Disney show and trying to do the math homework his teacher has assigned for the weekend. They were just starting to figure out the problems, nodding along to the music playing on the show, when Mike’s mother walked in looking tense._

_“Richie, honey?” Mrs. Hanlon said, crouching down to his height and trying for a smile. “I just got a call from the hospital. Your mom and dad got in an accident, and Maggie wants me to bring you right over, so we have to go, okay?”_

_Richie has been terrified. Mike held his hand. It helped a little bit._

_As soon as they arrived at the hospital, Maggie rushed over to wrap Richie in a bone-crushing hug. She’d only suffered minor injuries, just a sprained wrist, a concussion, and some bruising on the side of her face where her head had whipped against the window. He hugged her back just as tight, relief flooding his system seeing that she was alright. He couldn’t imagine life without her. It was like trying to live without breathing; he just couldn’t, he needed her to survive._

_“Your father is a stupidly brave man,” she told Richie, once they had settled into the plastic chairs of the waiting room. Mike refused to leave Richie’s side, still holding his hand. Mrs. Hanlon had agreed to let him stay, saying his father would pick him up when he got off work. “He turned the car, Richie. We were going to get hit head-on, but he turned the car so that the truck hit his side instead.”_

_Richie didn’t fully grasp what she was saying, but he got the gist of it. “He saved you,” he said, in awe._

_Maggie nodded, her smile wobbly. “He did, Rich. He saved me.” There were tears rolling down her cheeks. Using his free hand, Richie wiped them away. “He’s a hero, did you know that?”_

_“He’s my hero,” Richie told her. He frowned, tightening his grip on Mike’s hand, and asked, “Why’d he do it? Why’d he let himself get hurt so bad?”_

_A sob fell from her lips, dark curls falling from her loose bun and into her eyes. He got his hair from her, he knew. Anyone who looked at them could tell they were mother and son because of how much he looked like her. “People do stupid things for people they love,” she informed him. “Your dad didn’t want me to get hurt, so he let himself take all the pain.”_

_“He’s my hero,” Richie repeated softly, sharing a smile with Mike. “He’s a dumb hero, though, ‘cause he put himself in the hospital.”_

_This made Maggie laugh lightly, and Richie knew they’d be okay. Once Wentworth came out of surgery, he’d recover, and they’d be just fine. “He is,” Maggie agreed. “He‘s a very dumb hero, but he loves us to pieces.” Then, looking to Mike, she reached over and pinched his cheeks, cooing, “That includes you, Mikey! Went loves all of you kids!”_

_Mike giggled, swatting away her hand with a grin. “He’s my hero, too,” he admitted. “Even if he’s a dumb hero, he’s still pretty cool.”_

_“You two,” Maggie said, looking between the boys fondly, “are some of the sweetest boys to have ever existed.” Then, a bit more serious, she asked, “Can you both promise me something?”_

_They nodded._

_“When you’re older and you love someone,” she started, her eyes lingering on Mike — she could see how close he was to Stan and Bill, in a way that was just a bit different than Richie and Beverly. They were still kids, but she had a feeling that there’d be more for those three in the future. “I want you two to be extra careful, alright? You’re gonna want to do dumb things for them, things that will get you hurt, but you have to promise me to take a step back and really think about it first. If it’s too risky, you don’t do it. Can you promise me that?”_

_Again, Mike and Richie nodded, simultaneously responding with, “Yes, Ma’am, we promise.”_

 

 

 

 

            Richie stares at the phone in his hand, one he’d managed to find for fifteen bucks at the gas station, the number that he spent hours tracking down already typed in. He doesn’t know if this is as dangerous as it feels, but he finds that he doesn’t care, not really. This is something he wants to do. For Eddie.

            He has no idea how bad things may be in the Kaspbrak kingdom. For all he knows, they could track this number (hence him buying a burner phone) and find his location (hence him driving to the town over), but maybe it’s worth the risk. Or maybe he’s just an idiot who’s about to get himself killed for a stupid crush. Who knows.

            Shoving away his worries, he presses the call button, holding the phone up to his ear to hear it ring. The breeze bites angrily at his skin, sending chills down his spine and making goosebumps rise along his arms. He has to make this as fast as possible; if he isn’t quick enough, Eddie will get worried and call him, wondering why a trip to get a few snacks ended up dragging on for so long.

            Eddie can’t know about this. Not yet. It has to be a surprise, if it works at all.

            Huffing out a nervous breath, Richie waits, hearing the phone ring, and ring, and ring, until finally someone answers with a soft, “Hello?”

            “Hi!” Richie exclaims, loud with both excitement and nerves. A bit quieter, he repeats, “Hi, uh, sorry to bother you but, um- is Ben Hanscom there?”

 

 

 

 

            Everyone’s acting weird and it’s kind of driving Eddie insane. They’re looking at him like they know something he doesn’t — and yeah, they probably know a lot of things that he doesn’t, but still. It’s fucking annoying.

            But he doesn’t ask about it, because asking about it feels like admitting defeat somehow. Instead, he tries to ignore the way Beverly giggles into her palm for an unknown reason, or the way Mike keeps glancing his direction with a wide grin, or the way Bill can’t stop checking the time, or the way Stan keeps whispering to both Mike and Bill, or the way that Richie can’t fucking sit still.

            It’s a lot harder to ignore the last thing, though, because Richie really doesn’t stop moving and it’s seriously distracting. His knee bounces, his fingers tap against his legs, he hums to himself, he tugs at his own curls; at one point he even gets up and starts pacing behind the couch for no good reason, looking at his phone anxiously. It’s annoying, yeah, but Eddie’s starting to just get concerned. Ever since the fight on Monday, Richie’s been acting a little off, like there’s something on his mind that he just can’t talk about. Eddie hasn’t pushed or prodded, but now he’s wishing he had, because this is getting ridiculous.

            Just as he’s getting fed up, mere seconds away from demanding to know what the fuck is going on, Richie exclaims, “I gotta go get the pizza!” Then, without another word, he runs out the door.

            Eddie watches him go with his jaw dropped, eyebrows raised. A moment later, he hears the Jeep pull out of the driveway. “What the fuck,” he breathes, turning to look at the rest of the loser’s, who are watching him intently. Bewildered, he repeats, “What the  _fuck?”_

            “We need to talk to you,” Beverly says then, glancing around the room as the other three nod in agreement. Eddie doesn’t respond, just shifts nervous in his seat and waits for her to go on. “It’s about Richie.”

            Instantly, Eddie’s heart stops. “What is it? Is something wrong? It this about why he’s been acting so weird?”

            Mike reaches over and squeezes Eddie’s shoulder reassuringly. “No, it’s not about that,” he promises. “We just can’t talk to you about this with him here, so we had to wait until he left.”

            “It’s about the stuff I told you,” Beverly explains. “When you first got here, and I told you about my dad. Do you remember that?”

            She asks like it hasn’t only been a couple weeks since it happened. Still on edge, Eddie nods and says, “Yeah. I remember.” Frowning, he asks, “What about it?”

            “You need to hear the rest of it,” she tells him.

            “From all of us,” Bill adds.

            Eddie swallows thickly. “Okay.”

            After a heavy pause, Stan starts, “Maggie and Went were like parents to all of us.” He says this sadly, a smile on his lips that seems haunted, as he intertwines his fingers with Bill’s and leans his head on Mike’s shoulder. “Richie and I were the first of us to become friends, back when we were toddlers. Our parents knew each other, so we had play dates, and he’s always been an annoying asshole but he’s always been my best friend, too.” He sighs, brows furrowed. “When we were kids, before we met everyone else, he would tell me that he wanted to be just like his parents when he grew up. He wanted to be like Maggie because she was fun and loving. He wanted to be like Went because he was funny and supportive. He... he loved them, more than I’ve seen someone love another person.”

            “When we became a group,” Mike continues, giving Stan a chance to breathe, “Maggie and Went treated us all like we were their kids, too. Went used to drive me to my baseball games when my dad had to work, and he’d bring everyone with him and they’d all hold signs with my name and cheer me on. They made me feel like I was a star, not just some kid on the peewee team.” He chuckles fondly, sharing a grin with Beverly as they both reminisced.

            “You were the best damn player on that team,” Bill states, causing all four of them to chuckle.

            Eddie watches this with wet eyes, not sure why exactly he’s tearing up but unable to make himself stop. He can easily picture all five of them together, small but mighty, connected at the hip and unable to let go. It’s harder, though, to picture Wentworth as the kind of person they’re describing now; to Eddie, Went seems far too cold, too mentally absent.

            A heaviness falls over them. Taking a deep breath, Bill says, “When we were nine, Maggie and Went got in a car accident. Went deliberately spun the car when he saw that there was a truck headed towards them, so that the impact happened on his side. Maggie still got hurt, but it was a lot less s-s-s–” he stops, looking frustrated as he spits, “Dammit! That’s the first time I’ve stuttered in months!”

            Stan pulls Bill into his lap wordlessly, and Beverly picks up where he left off. “It was a lot less severe than it would have been if Went hadn’t turned the car,” she explains to Eddie. “He had to go into surgery for his ribs and his leg, and ended up in the hospital for a really long time. Maggie was pissed at him for risking his life like that, but we all knew she wasn’t really mad. She was just scared of how close she came to losing him. We all were.”

            “Richie was at my house when the crash happened,” Mike comments quietly, looking across the room with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I held his hand the rest of the day, until my dad made me go home.”

            A tear falls down Eddie’s cheek.  _Thank you,_  he wants to say,  _for being there for him,_  but he swallows the words and waits for them to go on.

            “Maggie hit her head in the accident,” Stan says next, voice thick and wobbly. “She started acting a little off, but the doctors just said it was a concussion and didn’t look into it anymore after that.” He has to stop for a second, sucking in a harsh breath before gritting out, “They should have fucking looked harder.”

            Exhaling shakily, Beverly explains, “She had some head trauma. It wasn’t anything major, they didn’t even notice it, but it had a snowball effect. She started acting kind of distant, and she’d forget small things, like when we were planning on having a sleepover and stuff like that. Then, when we were ten, Richie stopped inviting us over. He didn’t tell us why, but we still ran into Maggie in town sometimes and we could tell she just wasn’t the same person anymore.”

            “Her head trauma altered the chemical balance in her brain,” Bill says. “She became more and more depressed as time went on, and she started drinking. Then, when we were thirteen, Richie came home one day and she was completely unresponsive. He called for an ambulance, and the next morning, she died from alcohol poisoning.”

            Eddie kind of knew that this was headed here, but still he gasps, eyes swimming with tears.  _God, poor Richie._

            Mike decides to go on from there, his features strained as he speaks. “Her death hit everyone pretty hard, since she was like a mom to all of us, but Richie and Went were destroyed. Weeks would go by where we wouldn’t see or hear from Richie at all, and then he’d show up at one of our houses bawling his eyes out. Went disappeared for awhile, leaving a pile of cash for Richie, and when he came back he wasn’t the same. He was mean, cold, like all the life had been sucked out of him.”

            “Richie told me last week that he thinks part of his dad died when his mom did,” Beverly adds sadly. “I think he’s right.”

            “Last week?” Eddie questions, voice breaking.

            Beverly nods. “When you guys were fighting, he went to the park where we used to play a lot as kids. That’s where I found him.” She sighs, looking Eddie in the eyes as she tells him, “He’s been through a lot, even more than we can tell you. It eats at him, but he doesn’t want to be a burden, so he doesn’t say anything until it’s gotten to the point that he has to. When that point comes, he goes to the park, and one of us goes to talk him.”

            Eddie can hear his heart shattering in his chest. “Why don’t all of you go?”

            “It overwhelms him,” Stan explains. “He’s strong as all hell, don’t get me wrong, but when he’s in that state of mind, having more than one person with him makes him panic. That’s why I backed away when he got in that fight with Madsen. Having both of us in front of him was too much for him to handle, and I knew he probably needed you more than he needed me, so I gave you guys space.”

            Thinking about it, Eddie can remember how Richie’s breathing hadn’t calmed down until it was just the two of them leaning against the wall, wrapped around one another in a tight embrace and crying into each other’s shoulders.

            “I told you before,” Beverly says, “that Went hasn’t always been like this, and I mean that. He was like a father to me, but now he’s neglectful and angry. There‘s been a few times where he’s hit Richie, and he always apologizes after, but who he is and who he was are polar opposites.” She shakes her head with a sigh. “That night, when you asked me what Richie was doing, he was trying to talk to Went.”

            “Before leaving for work,” Mike elaborates, “him and Richie got in a big argument. There was nothing to eat in the house, and Richie just got fed up with being treated like he doesn’t exist, so he snapped. Went got the call for the job to protect you in the middle of it, and he promised Richie that he’d talk to him about everything when he came back.”

            Eddie doesn’t need anyone else to explain the rest. Softly, he finishes, “But he didn’t.”

            “But he didn’t,” Stan echoes in confirmation.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” Eddie breathes, burying his face in his hands. He tries not to cry, he really does, but he can’t help it as he thinks about everything he just heard. “He doesn’t deserve to go through all of this.”

            Beverly lets out a mix between a snort and a sob. “Oh, trust me,” she says, “we’re aware of that. Pretty much all we do is try to prevent this shit from happening, but...” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, offering a gently smile. “Shit still happens, y’know?”

            Eddie tries to nod, but he’s not really hearing her anymore, too caught up in his thoughts to focus. Is that why Richie’s been so weird this past week? It has to be, right? But it feels odd, still — Richie has been on edge, yeah, but in a nervous sort of way, almost excited, so what’s really going on? What the hell’s happening, Richie?

            “Eddie,” Mike says, snapping his fingers a few inches away from Eddie’s nose, making him blink in shock and focus back in on the room. “Jesus, man, you really spaced for a second there.”

            Frowning, Eddie clears his throat and murmurs, “Sorry, uh- what were you saying?”

            “We need to ask you something,” Stan tells him.

            Bill nods, adding, “And we really need you to think about it before you answer, okay?”

            “Okay,” Eddie agrees, confused. “Yeah, sure. What is it?”

            Bill, Mike, and Stan all look to Beverly, who’s staring at Eddie in a strange, calculating way. Eddie shifts uncomfortably under her stare, and finally, after what feels like an eternity but is realistically only a few seconds, she asks, “What is Richie to you?”

            Oh.

            It’s a simple question, but when he parts his lip to answer, he finds himself hesitating.  _What is Richie to me?_  He’s never really thought about it before, just kind of called Richie his friend and moved on, but is that really it? Friend doesn’t feel like the right term for it. Family? No, that’s far too strong — that’s what the losers are, they’re a family, but he hasn’t been here long enough to be that close yet (he can feel it, though, can feel the way they’re accepting him into their group with open arms, and he wonders, for a moment, if he deserves to have a spot with them when they’ve gone through so much together and he’s just kind of here). So not family, not friend, but what? What does he call Richie, then? What does he call someone who made him feel at home on his first night here, who makes him feel safe, who makes him laugh more than he ever has before? What does he call that?

            “Oh, fuck,” Eddie breathes, realization dawning on him so suddenly that it’s suffocating. “Oh,  _fuck_.” He looks around slowly, taking in the faces surrounding him, shocked to see they’re all smiling at him knowingly. Despite the fact that they’re clearly aware of what’s going through his head, he can’t help but whisper, “I think I like him.”

            Beverly scoots over to sit right next to him, where Richie was sitting before he left, and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “We know,” she tells him, grinning. “We just didn’t know if you knew it yet.”

            “You guys suck,” Eddie deadpans, making everyone laugh giddily. His lips twitch into a smile, but he tries to fight it as he goes on, exclaiming, “No, seriously! You could’ve just asked like normal people! Or you could’ve just told me, hey, we think you like Richie, and I could have been like, oh shit, maybe I do, but no! You had to get me all emotional first! Assholes.”

            “Who’s an asshole?” Richie asks from the doorway, which none of them heard open over their laughter. Eddie spins around with a yelp, worried about how much Richie had heard, but then his eyes settle on the figure besides him and the world comes to a stop.

            “Holy shit,” he says.

            Ben smiles, wide and happy, and responds with a, “Hello to you, too.”

 

 

 

 

_Edward bounced excitedly in his seat, unable to contain himself as he stared at the clock. His knees tapped the bottom of the table every few seconds, sending vibrations across the surface, and finally, after five minutes of this, Sonia sighed and said, “Can you please stop that?”_

_“Sorry,” he murmured, but they both knew he wasn’t. “When are they getting here?”_

_“Any minute now,” Sonia told him, and though his behavior was a bit frustrating, she couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes lit up._

_This was the day that the new royal designer, an Arlene Hanscom, would be moving into the castle. With her, she was bringing her son, Benjamin. Edward couldn’t wait to meet Benjamin — if things went well, like he hoped, the two of them would become best friends who spent their days exploring the castle, searching for secret passageways and adventure. Maybe they’d uncover a hidden evil in the depths of the past and together, side by side, they would save the world._

_Or, maybe, they’d just run around like idiots and make up stories of hidden evils in order to keep themselves entertained. That was probably more accurate._

_Finally, after a lifetime of waiting, Arlene and Benjamin arrived, a kind-faced woman accompanied by a nervous boy. Edward leaped out of his seat upon seeing them, rushing over to Benjamin and sticking his hand out excitedly, exclaiming, “Hi! I’m Edward!”_

_Benjamin stared at him in shock for a few moments before shaking his head, murmuring, “I’m Ben.”_

_Edward grinned, shamelessly stating, “Nice to meet you, Ben. I think we should be best friends.”_

_“Oh,” Ben breathed, not used to such kind behavior (and certainly not expecting it from the Prince), but he returned the grin, a bit timidly, and nodded. “Okay. I’d like that.”_

 

 

 

 

            Eddie cries when he barrels into Ben’s chest.

            Richie watches with a smile, kicking the front door shut behind him before carrying the boxes of pizza to the kitchen. He doesn’t bother trying to grab plates yet, just rushing back to the living room, not wanting to miss anything. When he comes back, Eddie is no longer hugging Ben, instead pointing to each of the losers and introducing them excitedly. When he sees Richie, he stops mid sentence and instantly closes the distance between them, throwing himself into Richie’s arms for a bone-crushing hug.

            Laughing lightly, Richie hugs back, murmuring, “Glad you like the surprise.”

            He expects Eddie to pull away, but he only tightens his grip, words muffled by Richie’s shoulder as he asks, “Is this why you were acting so weird?”

            “Was it that obvious?” Richie huffs, but he lets his eyes flutter shut, soaking in the warmth of the embrace.

            Eddie laughs. “Yeah, dumbass, it was obvious,” he says, giggling. “I thought there was something wrong with you.” He pulls back then, and Richie has to resist the urge to pout (he’s not that desperate, really, Eddie just gives really nice hugs). “Seriously, I was about to ask what the hell was going on, but you left before I could.”

            “Yeah, well,” Richie shrugs. “Now ya’ know.”

            “You’re unbelievable,” Eddie grins. “Seriously, like- how did this even happened? How’d you do it?”

            Cocking his head to the side, Richie pulls a low, mysterious voice and says, “I shall never reveal my secrets.”

            “He bought a flip phone,” Beverly calls from her seat, “and spent three fucking hours trying to find a number to your country.”

            Richie sighs, glaring at Beverly. “Never mind, then. Now you know my secrets.”

            Shaking his head in disbelief, Eddie opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, as if trying to find the right words. Eventually, he just breathes, “Thank you.”

            Richie smiles and pulls him into another hug.

 

 

 

 

            Time passes surprisingly fast once Ben settles in.

            There’s not another guest room at Richie’s house, so they invest in a decent mattress to put on the floor of Eddie’s room. The two of them switch between the bed and the mattress every couple days. About a week after arriving, Ben tells Eddie about the state of the Kaspbrak kingdom — “It’s not too bad, actually,” he says. “Gray’s people aren’t trying to track you down, they’re just dead set on making sure you don’t come back. It’ll probably take awhile, but give it three, maybe four months and there’ll be plenty of evidence gathered to get Robert Gray in jail.”

            Ben gets along easily with the rest of the group, and even joins the group chat after Richie lies to his dad, saying his phone broke so that he can get the money to buy one for Ben.

            While all of them are currently seventeen (though Mike, the oldest of the group, will be turning eighteen mid-April) it turns out that Ben is some kind of super-genius who has already surpassed high school, and even has a diploma to show it. The education system in the Kaspbrak kingdom is, apparently, very similar to America’s, just a lot smaller. Because of this, Ben spends his weekdays alone at Richie’s house until they come home, and while it sounds incredibly boring, he insists that he doesn’t mind.

None of the losers believe it, though. Which is why, the week before spring break (two months after Eddie’s arrival and a month and a half after Ben’s) Beverly suggests a camping trip.

            “Nothing big,” she says, waving her hand as she speaks, “but, like, a nice weekend getaway. There’s that really nice camping site right outside of Derry that we went to as kids, remember? And most people don’t know about it, so it’ll probably just be us there.”

            Richie tries not to frown, pressing his lips together to suppress the urge to protest when he sees Eddie’s eyes brighten. “I’ve never been camping!” he exclaims, grinning. “That sounds like so much fun!”

            Everyone else offers words of agreement, so Richie just forces a smile and nods along.

            On the first day of spring break, they pile into two cars (Bill, Mike, and Stan in Mike’s truck; Beverly, Ben, Richie, and Eddie in Went’s Jeep) and take off. Richie focuses on driving to avoid the dread in his gut, knowing that being back at the campsite will do nothing but bring back memories he’s tried hard to forget, but he must go unnaturally quiet as Eddie nudges him halfway through to ask, “You okay?”

            “Yeah, of course,” Richie answers, perhaps a bit too fast. Eddie doesn’t look completely convinced, but he doesn’t press on, instead just turning up the radio. He’s playing the good feeling playlist again, and that realization makes Richie smile. After that, he feels a little less tense and sings along to the music under his breath.

            By the time they reach the campsite, he’s managed to clear his head enough to stay in a decent mood, though his still flinches when they bring out the tents and start setting everything up. It all looks exactly the same as it did a year, when...

            No, he doesn’t want to think about it. Huffing out a breath, he pushes the memory out of his mind, putting his full attention on helping put up the tents. It pushes and prods in the corner of his mind, but he snuffs it out every time.

            It doesn’t really work, but it helps. Kind of.

            Once they have the tents set up, they make their way to the lake. It isn’t exactly summer weather, but it’s warm enough for swimming, so they dive in quickly and paddle around until their limbs feel like Jell-O and the sky is turning into a deep orange.

            Richie thinks he’s handling this pretty well, a lot better than he thought he would, as he sits by the campfire and roasts marshmallows with his friends. Being with them makes it easier — if he were to come here alone (which, he wouldn’t, but theoretically) he’d be a complete mess. With the good company, however, it’s only a dull throbbing in the back of his head that’ll probably turn into a bad dream tonight, but he can handle bad dreams.

            But then:

            “I’m not sure if anyone will want these,” Mike says, pulling out a case of beer, “but I brought them anyway.”

            And, well, never-fucking-mind then.

            “I’m gonna smoke,” he announces to the air, words probably lost in the music and the chatter and the sound of cans being cracked open. He gets a whiff of the beer as he walks away. The smell makes him gag, memories of Maggie Tozier laced in them in a way that he despises.

            The trail to the hill looking over the lake is mostly silent. On this short journey he decides, fuck it, and the memory he’s been trying so hard to push away unfurls in front of him.

 

 

 

 

_Richie thought Bridget was the most beautiful girl in the world._

_In her own way, of course, because he thought the same thing about Beverly when he looked at her, and as a kid his definition of beautiful was just a picture of his mother. Still, though, with the soft orange glow of the campfire warming her cheeks, a large sweater swallowing her frame (one of Richie’s sweaters, he noticed), he thought that she must be an angel or something. There was no way someone so stunning could be human, but she was — and not only was she a human, she was a human who was choosing to spend her weekend camping with Richie Trashmouth Tozier._

_She liked him. She said so herself, before she kissed him sweetly and hugged him tight._

_“So,” he said, squishing his roasted marshmallow between the chocolate and graham crackers in his hands. He took a bite of the S’more, feeling happier than he had in years, and continued with, “How do you like camping so far?”_

_She turned her gaze to him, the fire reflecting in her grey eyes in a way that made the world disappear around him. He wanted to take a picture, to remember how she looked in that moment forever, but he didn’t. Her lips turned up at the corners, transforming into a grin that simply floored him in it’s beauty, and she said, “It’s better than I imagined it would be.”_

_Swallowing the S’more in his mouth, he cocked an eyebrow and questioned, “Yeah? How so?”_

_“Anything with you is better than I imagined,” she told him simply, as if those words didn’t make his heart fall out of his ass. Fuck, he loved her. He really, honestly did._

_Unsure of how to respond, he shoved the rest of his S’more past his lips. The action made her giggle, and he properly swooned at the sound. Once his managed to swallow it, he cleared his throat and asked, “Can you believe you’ve been here for a year?”_

_“Not really,” she replied, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. “It feels like it’s been less than that, but it also feels like I’ve been here forever. It’s weird.”_

_He nodded. “No, I get it. It’s the same for me. Like, it feels like you just got here, but I also can’t remember what my life was like before you were in it.”_

_Her grin, somehow, widened. “Exactly.”_

_And Richie, somehow, blurted, “I’m in love with you.”_

_It wasn’t how he was planning on telling her — hell, he wasn’t sure if he was ever planning on telling her — but suddenly the words were out there and her smile was gone, replaced by a look of shock. He stared at her, eyes wide and nervous, so fucking nervous, until finally she breathed, “Are you serious?”_

_“Yeah,” he admitted, fidgeting with his hands, unable to tear his gaze from her. He waited, more so expected, for her to grimace and tell him to fuck off, to demand he drive them home and then never talk to him again._

_Instead, her eyes filled with tears and she flung herself forward, throwing her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist in a full body embrace. “I love you, too,” she told him, crying happily and pressing sweet kisses on his cheeks and his lips. “God, I’m so in love with you.”_

_It was then that Richie realized the only thing more beautiful than Bridget herself was the sound of her voice saying those words._

 

 

 

 

            Eddie has never touched a drop of alcohol in his life.

            Sure, he was offered the occasional sip of wine growing up, but upon seeing his mother’s distasteful frown he always declined. He never really saw the point in drinking, either, but there’s something about being in the woods, camping with friends for the first time ever, that makes him really want to be a stupid, reckless teenager that he never had the chance to be before.

            So, he drinks. Too much, probably. Definitely. Maybe. He isn’t really sure if it’s too much or if he’s just a lightweight. It’s not like he has any other experience to compare it to, right?

            “This is fucking disgusting,” he announces, staring down at the can of beer in his hand. It might be his second. It might also be his fifth. He really has no idea. “I hate it.”

            Stan rolls his eyes and takes the can away. “I think you’ve had enough.”

            Eddie parts his lips to protest, but gets cut off by a hiccup. Solemnly, he nods and murmurs, “Yeah, okay.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares into the campfire, subconsciously swaying side to side with the music that Beverly put on. Was it Beverly? It might have been Richie, since Richie’s really into music, but it doesn’t sound like something Richie would play — a little too poppy, Eddie thinks. Richie wouldn’t hate it, per-say, but it’s not the vibe that he’d go for right now. In a scene like this, with the seven of them sitting around a campfire and roasting marshmallows and getting pleasantly buzzed, Richie would play something more mellow, relaxing, something that makes them feel like they’re in a movie. A memory they’ll always cherish. Suddenly craving that feeling, Eddie turns to ask Richie if he can put on a different song, only to be met with empty air.

            Huh. There’s only six of them now. When did that happen?

            “Where’s Richie?” Eddie asks, words a little slurred as he looks around.

            Bill, sipping slowly at his own beer, shrugs and shoulder and answers, “Said he was going to smoke awhile ago. Probably got distracted or something.”

            Eddie suddenly regrets the beer, because no one else seems very concerned about this, but he knows everyone would be worried if they were sober. Even intoxicated, though, Eddie feels a little panicked. Looking to Stan, the only one who hasn’t had anything to drink, he asks, “Should someone find him?”

            Thank whatever God there may or may not be that Stan’s sober, because there’s worry in his eyes, too, and that’s kind of reassuring. “You go,” he tells Eddie. “Try the path leading up the hill. He likes to smoke up there.”

            “Okay,” Eddie nods, pushing himself to his feet. “Okay, yeah. I’ll go.” He stumbles a bit, having to hold his arms out to steady himself, but after a moment he’s on his way, pushing past low branches and squinting through the darkness until his eyes adjust to the change in lighting. The moon is bright tonight, thankfully, so it doesn’t take long before he can see well enough to make his way up the path that Stan mentioned.

            Richie is at the top of the hill, legs dangling over the edge of the large rock he’s sitting on. There’s a cigarette hanging from his lips, the glow at the end just bright enough to cast an orange glow over his upper lip and his chin. Eddie freezes for a second when he sees him, scanning every inch of the taller boy, almost in awe, before he scrambles his way up the rock and plops himself right next to Richie.

            There a gentle silence between them, something intangible in the air. Eddie breathes, “Hey.”

            “You’re drunk,” Richie states in response, gaze briefly flicking over to look at Eddie before returning to the view of the lake.

            Shrugging half-heartedly, Eddie replies, “Yeah, but I don’t really like it. It’s weird and fuzzy and I can’t really control what I’m saying. Like, there’s no filter, y’know? Whatever I think, I say, and I don’t like that.”

            Richie hums, bringing up a hand to grab the cigarette, pulling it away to let smoke roll past his lips. Eddie watches, oddly transfixed by the sight, almost missing it when Richie says, “I’ve never been drunk, so I don’t know. Don’t plan on finding out, either.”

            There’s a certain edge to his voice, like he isn’t really here, like he’s lost in his head and not paying attention to what’s going on around him. Eddie frowns, heart heavy. “Are you okay?”

            “Yeah,” Richie murmurs, taking another drag of the cigarette, now looking up at the stars. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

            “I think you’re lying,” Eddie blurts out, the alcohol in his system refraining him from thinking of what he’s saying. “Actually, I  _know_  you’re lying, ‘cause you get this little twitch in your eyebrow when you lie. Did you know that? You probably didn’t, but now you do. I noticed it a few weeks ago, when you ate my sandwich and told me you didn’t even though I saw you eat it. It‘s kinda dumb, but I mean, it’s a part of you, so it’s cute, too.” Richie blinks, movements slow as he looks over at Eddie with wide eyes, but Eddie’s too busy watching his legs swinging to notice. “It also tells me when you’re lying, like right now, so. Are you really okay?” Raising his head to meet Richie’s gaze, he adds, “And be honest.”

            Richie doesn’t respond for awhile, staring at Eddie in shock. Eddie stares back, an almost challenging look in his eyes, as if to say I dare you to try lying. Then Richie blinks again and stubs out his cigarette, brows furrowed as he clears his throat and looks away, saying, “You should probably lay down. You’re gonna have a shitty hangover tomorrow.”

            Huffing, Eddie grumbles, “Don’t change the subject, dick. I’m worried.” He watches Richie stand, reluctantly letting him pull him to his feet. “Seriously, Richie.”

            “I’ll tell you when you’re sober,” is all Richie responds with, letting Eddie lean against him as he leads the way down the path.

            “Promise?”

            Richie almost smiles. “Yeah, I promise.”

            Satisfied, Eddie nods. “Okay, good.” With that, he settles his head against Richie’s shoulder, humming along to the faint music from the campsite as they make their way back. It isn’t until they reach the tents that he starts mumbling incoherent thoughts, sleep already blurring the edge of his vision, words slipping past his lips in slurred letters and a vague train of thought. It starts with, “Your hair’s tickling me,” and then it’s, “My curls are different than Stan’s curls and your curls and Beverly’s curls and it kinda pisses me off that there are four of us that have curly hair but they’re all different kinds of curly hair,” and then it’s, “I’ve never had a group of friend before, and like, I had Ben, but it’s different, ‘cause it was just Ben, but now it’s Ben and Bill and Stan and Bev and Mike and you, and it’s- it’s- I dunno, better,” and eventually it’s, “I don’t think I want to leave.”

            “What?” Richie asks, pausing halfway through zipping up Eddie’s sleeping bag. He looks up, alarmed. “What did you just say?”

            “I don’t think I want to leave,” Eddie repeats, eyes half-lidded and words so slurred that it’s a wonder Richie can understand him at all. “‘Cause, like- I’m here ‘til I can go home, right? That’s what everyone tells me, y’know, once it’s safe to go home I can leave, but- but- that place doesn’t feel like home. It should, ‘cause I grew up there, y’know? ‘N my mom’s there, and m’dad died there, but it’s so uncomfortable, and big, and- and no one really treats me like a person, ‘cause I’m not a person, I’m Prince Edward, and I’m supposed to be King, but maybe I don’t wanna be, y’know? I never thought I had a choice, but now- now I’m here, and I don’t have to leave, you told me that, you said it’s an option, and I don’t think I want to leave, ‘cause that big, dumb castle, it- it’s- that’s not my home, this my home, y’know? With the loser’s, and- and with you.”

            By the time he finishes talking, he’s barely awake. Richie opts not to say anything else, just zipping up the sleeping bag the rest of the way before climbing out of the tent, his heart thundering in his chest.

 

 

 

 

            “You look like hell, Tozier.”

            “Fuck off, Uris.”

            Stan chuckles, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he shuffles forward to join Richie by the bank of the lake. He lifts one corner and drapes it around Richie, huddling closer to fit the two of them under the material better. “You do know it’s, like, five in the morning, right?”

            “5:15,” Richie corrects with a sigh. “And yeah, I know. I couldn’t sleep.”

            Frowning, Stan inhales slowly, pondering his next move, before asking, “What’s going on, Rich?”

            Richie purses his lips, taking his time to mull over how to respond. There are plenty of things going on — too many things, perhaps, for him to explain them all, but he can fucking try. Clicking his tongue once, he decides to start with, “Y’know, right over there–” he points over his shoulder, towards the campfire, where there are now only soft glowing embers left behind from the night before, “—is where I told Bridget that I loved her, a little over a year ago.”

            “Shit,” Stan breathes out. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

            Shrugging, Richie admits, “I dunno, it just... It felt like the kind of story that we wouldn’t share until after we grew up. Like, I thought we’d wait to tell it at our wedding or something.” He looks at the ground sheepishly, feeling almost ashamed as he murmurs, “It‘s pretty stupid, but then she left and it felt embarrassing to talk about, so I just... didn’t.”

            “That’s not stupid,” Stan tells him. “In fact, that’s probably the least stupid thing that you‘ve ever said.”

            “Wow,” Richie snorts. “Thanks. Really, Stanny, that’s what I wanted to hear. You nailed it.”

            Smiling, Stan nudges his shoulder against Richie’s. “Keep talking. What else is on your mind?” Voice taking on a sing-songy tone, he adds, “And don’t try to hide the truth from me, Tozier. I know one of the things on your mind is currently sleeping in a tent twenty feet away.”

            Richie groans, rolling his eyes. “God, stop acting like you can read my mind! It’s fucking eerie, man.”

            “Oh, come on,” Stan defends. “We all know you almost as well as we know ourselves, but you and I have known each other since we were in diapers. I can tell if you’re getting sick just from your breathing! Which, by the way, you’re gonna want to invest in some cold medicine when we get back.”

            With a tsk, Richie muses, “That water’s looking real nice, Stanny. Keep talking and you’ll find yourself having an early morning dip.”

            This makes Stan cackle loudly, throwing his head back as he nudges Richie’s shoulder with his own again, this time a bit harder and more teasing. “You’d be a dead man,” he says, still laughing under his breath as he sobers up. “But seriously, Rich. What else is going on with you? You were acting off yesterday, and then just vanished.”

            Sensing that he can’t get away with anymore joking around, Richie sighs, crossing his arms over his chest with his shoulder hunched slightly. “I dunno, just...” he trails off with a grimace, shaking his head. “It’s stupid, literally all of it is stupid, but, like... I haven’t been here since I was with Bridget, so coming here kind of just- it made me all weird. I was doing fine though, kinda sad maybe, but then there was beer and I- I couldn’t handle being around that, y’know?” He pauses, tilting his head to the side before admitting, “Just the smell of it made me think of Mom, so I just... I walked away.”

            “Jesus, Richie,” Stan sighs, sadness in his eyes. “You should have said something, you know we would have put it away if you just–”

            “If I just what?” Richie questions. “Just- just hold everyone else back from being able to have fun? Just stop you guys from getting to choose if you want to get drunk? Just fucking burden everyone?” He cuts off sharply, his inhales short and exhales shaky, before continuing, “I didn’t want to do that to you guys, and I kind of felt like being alone anyway, so it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

            Stan reluctantly lets the subject drop, knowing better than to keep pushing when Richie isn’t ready. Instead, he asks, “What about Eddie? ‘Cause there’s no way I’m letting you get away with not talking about that one.”

            “There’s not much to say about him,” Richie murmurs. “I mean, he did say some stuff last night when he was drunk.” Stan’s eyebrows rise in a silent question, urging Richie to explain, “He was just, like, rambling about all of us, saying stuff about how he’s never had a group of friends before and how much he likes it. It was pretty cute, actually, but then he went on this big rant about how he doesn’t know if he wants to leave, saying that this is his home now, which- I mean, that’s cool, I’m glad, but it feels a lot like the whole Bridget situation and I don’t want to go through that again.”

            Nodding, Stan says, “That makes sense, but... Eddie and Bridget are nothing alike. You know that, right?” Richie frowns in uncertainty, causing Stan to insist, “I’m being serious, Rich. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Bridget before she did what she did, but there are very few similarities between her and Eddie, and the main one is that they’re both royalty. They were both kind of timid when they arrived, but Bridget was already a soft-spoken person, you know? Even after being here for a year, she never really understood the way we all tease each other and you always had to remind her that that’s just how we are. Eddie gets it, though. After, like, a week he was already joking around with us and calling us names.”

            Richie’s lips twitch into a small smile. “He told me I looked ridiculous within an hour of him showing up.”

            “See what I mean?” Stan gets more energetic with his words as he elaborates, “That’s not all, either. Bridget never swore, remember? She was never really loud, never joked around, never swore... She was nice and all, but she was really serious. You guys were kind of polar opposites, really. Eddie, though- he can be serious, sure, but he’s funny, and I think he could beat all of us in a swearing contest.”

            Snorting, Richie nods. “Honestly, he probably could.”

            Stan grins. “Exactly! So, yeah, I understand where there’s parallels, and I understand why that makes you nervous, but... I don’t think Eddie would ever do what she did.”

            “You’re right,” Richie sighs, scrubbing a hand over his features tiredly. “God, I know you’re right, but I’m still fucking terrified. It’s like, every time I look at him I can feel myself liking him more, and then I just think about her and what she did and it scares me so bad that I can’t even think.”

            “You want my advice?” Stan asks. “Talk to him. When he wakes up, or when we go home, or whenever you want, just... talk to him. Tell him what he told you last night and ask him if he really wants to stay, and from there we can figure it out.”

            Richie goes quiet, lips pursed in thought as he lets his gaze scan the lake. The morning fog is almost completely gone now, sun warming his skin to the touch, and maybe this place has a lo of memories, and maybe he’s afraid of a lot of things right now, but that’s okay. He’s been through a lot worse. With a gentle smile, he nods and says, “I will.”

            So, he does.

            It isn’t until hours have passed, the sun now high in the sky and noon fast approaching. Eddie is the last one to stumble out of the tents, rubbing sleep from his eyes and squinting through a horrible headache to see everyone but Richie’s already back in the water and splashing around. Richie can’t help but grin when he sees Eddie, calling out, “Good morning, sleeping beauty!”

            “Oh, god,” Eddie groans, coming to a stop a few feet away and covering his face his hands. “You’re too loud. Please, for the love of fucking god, don’t open your mouth.”

            Snickering, Richie grabs the bottle of ibuprofen that he dug out of his bag earlier and takes out two pills, waiting until Eddie’s lowered his hands before holding them out in an offer. “Here,” he says. “I have water for you, too.”

            Eddie accepts the pills with a grateful smile, sitting next to Richie in the grass on the shore of the lake before setting them on his tongue and opening the bottle of water to swallow them. He takes a few large gulps to try and rid the dry feeling in his mouth, a grimace on his face once he puts the water down. “It’s official. Getting drunk sucks.”

            “I dunno,” Richie shrugs, a glint in his eyes. “It definitely put you in a good mood last night. You didn’t stop talking until you passed out.”

            Groaning again, this time louder, Eddie begs, “Please tell me I didn’t say anything embarrassing.”

            Richie hums, tilting his head as he replies, “That depends, is it embarrassing that me, you, Stan, and Beverly all have different kinds of curly hair and that apparently pisses you off?”

            “Not really,” Eddie tells him. “I would have said that sober, actually. It’s fucking aggravating.”

            “Why does it bug you so much?” Richie asks, laughing.

            Eddie shrugs, taking another sip of his water before answering, “I have no clue, honestly. I just remember thinking on my first day here that your hair was curlier than mine, and when I met Beverly I noticed that mine was curlier than hers, and then a few days after meeting Stan I realized that his is somewhere between mine and yours, and that just- it’s weirdly annoying. Not in a bad way, really, it’s just something that randomly pops in my head and every time it does I’m like, god dammit, why the fuck am I thinking about this? But then I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s an endless cycle. My own personal hell.”

            “Wow,” Richie whistles. “You’re fucking weird.”

            “Fuck off,” Eddie rolls his eyes, suppressing a laugh as he shoves Richie’s shoulder. “What else did I say?”

            This is his chance. Gnawing nervously on his lower lip, Richie avoids Eddie’s gaze and tells him, “Not a lot, mostly just stuff about how much you like having a group of friends, and, uh...” He stops and clears his throat, not really sure why he’s so scared to say this (that’s a lie; he’s scared that Eddie will tell him it isn’t true, that Eddie has never even considered staying, that Eddie will laugh like this place has always been nothing but temporary) but eventually he manages to force out, “You told me that you don’t want to leave here. You said that you think this is your home now, with the loser’s and- and with me.”

            Eddie lets out a little oh, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. “Well,” he starts, slowly, “I’ve definitely been considering it. I guess drunk me made some decisions that I haven’t had time to fully think about yet.”

            “You have?” Richie asks, a little surprised, a little too hopeful.

            “I mean, yeah,” Eddie nods. “It kind of occurred to me a few weeks ago that I really love it here, y’know? Like... yeah, okay, the Kaspbrak kingdom will always be where I grew up and I’ll probably always find some kind of reassurance there, but I didn’t realize how uncomfortable I was in that place until I came here. You- all of you made me feel so welcomed, and it’s so easy to relax and be happy around you guys.” He pauses, taking a moment to think through his next words before going on. “I guess it used to be like that, when I was a kid, but... when my dad died, my mom got so paranoid about me getting sick, too, that she lost any sort of warmth or compassion that she had. She just became so overbearing and protective that any sense of comfort I had there went away.”

            Richie’s practically holding his breath now in anticipation. To his left, he hears Stan yelp, followed by a splash and loud laughter, but he’s too enraptured in this conversation to look and see what happened. “If you did stay,” Richie says, “then what would you do? Would you stay in Derry, go somewhere else, or... what?”

            “I haven’t really thought that far ahead, yet,” Eddie mutters. “I mean, I’m technically here on a green card provided by the company your dad works for, so I’d have to become an actual legal citizen once I turn eighteen. After that, I don’t really know.” He shrugs, lips pursed slightly. “I guess it could be cool to, like, travel the country or something, but... Yeah, I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”

            Deciding not to press anymore, Richie just nods and asks, “Can you tell me when you figure it out? I don’t want to get my hopes up again.”

            Eyebrows furrowing slightly, Eddie answers, “Yeah, of course, but what do you mean get your hopes–”

            Before he can finish his sentence, Richie is on his feet, throwing his shirt off and running into the water to join everyone else. Eddie watches him go, confused, but opts to drop it for now. If it’s important enough, he knows it’ll come back up again at some point.

 

 

 

 

            The first time Beverly brings up prom is exactly one week after their camping trip.

            With school starting back up Monday, and some stressful exams following immediately after, they’ve decided to use Saturday night to relax while they still can. She mentions it halfway through the first movie they put in, all of them lounging around the living room with various snacks when she blurts out, “What are we doing for prom?”

            “Considering it’s over a month away,” Stan replies, gaze still trained on the TV, “I have no fucking idea. Why?”

            She rolls her eyes and throws a piece of popcorn in his general direction. It lands in Eddie’s lap, but he just hands it to Richie, who happily tosses it into his mouth. “‘Cause I’m curious, dipshit. We’re all going, right?”

            “I don’t know if you remember this,” Ben speaks up, “but I don’t attend the school, so...”

            “Minor details,” Beverly waves her hand dismissively. “None of the staff care enough to check for student ID’s, they probably won’t even notice.”

            Ben makes a noise of satisfaction and says, “Well, damn, okay. If I can get in, I’d love to go, but only if you guys are going, too.”

            “We don’t know yet,” Mike states, “and in the middle of a movie is a bad time to ask.” Beverly raises her hands in front of her defensively, but lets the subject drop for the time being.

            Four days later, she brings it up again, this time just to Eddie. “Do you want to go?” she asks. “If you don’t want to go, I don’t want to seem like I’m pressuring you or anything, it’s completely up to you.”

            “No, I know, just...” he sighs, twiddling his thumbs together with a sheepish smile as he admits, “I always heard about proms being such a big deal in America and I don’t want to go expecting some great thing and be let down. And I definitely don’t want to go there just to see Richie dancing with everyone but me.”

            Beverly snorts, an incredulous look on her face. “Are you kidding me? He’ll probably spend the whole night dancing only with you. Like, we’ll have to drag him away from you or something, honestly.”

            Rolling his eyes, Eddie murmurs, “Yeah, right.” As he says it, though, he feels hope (if he’s lucky, it’s not false hope) stir in his chest and can’t hold back the grin that stretches from ear to ear on his face.

            The next time she talks about it is a week later at lunch. “It’s under a month away now,” she defends when Stan glares at her, “and I want to start trying to make plans!” Huffing out a heavy breath, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, exclaiming, “Jesus, it’s not like I’m asking you guys if you committed a fucking murder, it’s just prom.”

            “What’s your idea then, Bev?” Richie asks.

            Sitting up straight again, Beverly grins, laying her hands palm down on the table. “Glad you asked! I’m making my own dress and I’m thinking about asking Audra to go with me.”

            “Fucking finally!” Bill practically yells.

            Even Stan has dropped his glare and is looking at her excitedly. “Are you serious? You guys have been pining for each other since we were thirteen and found out that both of you weren’t straight!”

            “I’m aware, thank you, Stanley,” Beverly rolls her eyes. “I just hope she says yes.”

            “Are you kidding?” Mike chuckles, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and squeezing affectionately. “She’d be an idiot to say no.”

            Satisfied, she doesn’t bring it up again for another two weeks, when she corners Eddie and Richie in the hallway. There’s a glint in her eyes, like she has something specific planned for this conversation, but all she does is ask, “Are you two going to prom?”

            “If you want me to,” is all Richie says.

            Eddie hesitates, then murmurs, “I don’t want to go alone.”

            “You won’t be alone,” she tells him, brows furrowed. “The rest of us are gonna be there.”

            “Yeah,” he sighs, looking embarrassed, “but I mean, like- you and Audra, y’know? I just... I don’t want to go without an actual date.”

 _Don’t do it,_  Richie thinks.

            “I’ll be your date,” Richie says.

_Fuck._

            Eddie blinks, mouth agape in shock as he looks up at Richie. “You- I, uh- what?”

            “I mean–” Richie splutters helplessly for a response, flailing his hands in front of him like the wild gesturing will manage to speak for him. “Like- yeah? I can take you? Not like- not as a _date_ -date, if you don’t- it isn’t- I don’t–”

            “Great!” Beverly exclaims, clapping her hands together with a grin. “Now you have a date! So, you’re going, right?” She doesn’t give them time to answer before saying, “Perfect. I’ll talk to you later about what you wanna wear, okay?”

            Murmuring an  _okay_ , Eddie lowers his gaze to the floor and shuffles away, biting back a grin. Richie stands there, shell shocked, before turning and thumping his forehead against the locker, cursing under his breath.  _You’re an idiot, Tozier._

 

 

 

 

_Frank Kaspbrak loved music._

_He wasn’t really up-to-date with the newer styles, definitely preferred older stuff played from the record player in the corner of the study. He always had something on in the background, sometimes a soft song, other times something more fast-paced and upbeat. When Eddie was a kid, he used to sit on the sofa in the study and listen to the music, dancing along whenever his father wasn’t working._

_“I have a new record for us to listen to,” Frank told Eddie one day, grinning down at his son as he put it on. “The music itself is pretty old, but I think you’ll like it.”_

_Eddie nodded excitedly, swinging his legs back and forth. He waited in anticipation, gnawing on the inside of his cheek to hold himself back from talking. Listening to music with his dad was one of his favorite things — it was always so relaxing, hearing each song and seeing how much Frank loved every single one. Some of Eddie’s favorites were The Beatles and Journey, but he enjoyed almost anything he heard._

_“Here we go,” Frank murmured, taking a step back from the record player and sitting next to Eddie on the sofa. The beginning notes of the song floated through the room gently, soothingly. “Listen closely to this one, alright? There’s a lot of meaning in these lyrics.”_

_Eddie leaned forward, brows furrowed in concentration as he focused in on the music. A voice filtered through the instrumental, low and smooth, and he found himself subconsciously leaning forward to hear it better. He recognized the singer — his father had plenty of Elvis Presley records, but he had never heard this song before._

_Frank let the whole thing play through before asking, “What’d you think, kiddo?”_

_“That was Elvis,” Eddie replied, more of a statement than a question. Frank still nodded in confirmation, looking proud. “It’s really pretty, I like it. What’s it called?”_

_“That,” Frank said, “was Can’t Help Falling In Love. It’s one of the best love songs in existence, in my opinion.” Then, looking curious, he added, “What do you think it means?”_

_Eddie hummed, head cocked to the side as he pondered his answer. “Well,” he eventually responded, “you said it’s a love song, right? So, it’s about love.”_

_Chuckling, Frank nodded. “You’re not wrong there, kiddo, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Music holds a lot of meaning, more than just the basics, if that makes sense.” He paused, contemplating his next words. “This song is a love song, yes, but it’s about how he fell in love with someone really fast, so fast that everyone told him he was making a bad choice, but falling in love isn’t a choice. You can’t help falling in love with someone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”_

_“I think so,” Eddie said. “It’s, like- hidden meaning, right? Like, he sings one thing, but he means more than he says.”_

_“Not exactly, but pretty much,” Frank agreed, grinning. “Just remember this, okay? Music means so much more than it just sounds. People pour their heart and soul out into music, whether they make it or just listen, but here’s the thing. You can figure out a whole lot about a person by the music they listen to.”_

 

 

 

 

            Eddie is, like, 99% sure he knows what he wants to do.

            There’s a lot of doubt in his mind, a lot of fear and paranoia over how many ways that everything could go horribly, horribly wrong, but he’s willing to risk it. Scary as it may be, he wants this. He wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything before in his life.

            He wants to stay.

            It’s going to a pain in the ass process to go through, no doubt, but he’s more than willing to go through it. As soon as he turns eighteen, he’ll follow the steps he needs to turn his green card into proper citizenship, and after that he’ll start at the closest community college to wherever he ends up (read: wherever he follows to loser’s to) and get his GED. It’d be helpful if he could just get a high school diploma, but seeing how he currently has five high school credits to his name out of the twenty-seven needed to graduate, that’s just not possible.

            And after that? He has no fucking idea what he’s going to do, but he’ll figure it out.

            He just doesn’t know how to tell Richie.

            The thing is, it’s good news (well, it is to him — he hopes that everyone else will think it’s good news, too), but every time he tries to bring it up, his throat closes and he just can’t manage to choke out the words. It’s kind of infuriating, really, but something keeps holding him back.

            So, prom. That’s his plan. A bit vague, and more of a god dammit just tell him than an actual plan, but it’s something. Plus, it gives him another four days to think of what exactly he wants to say, how he wants to say it, and when the best time to say it would be. Should he tell them at the beginning of the night, before they go in so they can spend the entire dance celebrating? Should he wait until the end of the night and make it a cherry on top kind of surprise? Should he just blurt it out in the middle of dancing and hope for the best? He’s not sure yet, but he has time to think about it. Everything’s under control.

            That is, until he finds it.

            Ever since he arrived, Eddie has been using Richie’s Spotify. He thought about making his own account, but it felt unnatural, somehow, so he never did. By this point, after being here for nearly five months, he’s become accustomed to opening the app and going to the playlists, seeing song rec’s and good feeling, choosing which one he wants to listen to depending on if he’s in the mood for sad songs or not. He’s so used to it, in fact, that he almost misses the third playlist that definitely was not there yesterday when he goes to listen to music before bed.

            [**_for you_**](https://open.spotify.com/user/httpariona/playlist/05ijRPUMuIN1LdpdW7KvvM?si=lNi7zDAlTG-hVaKStyQvAg)

            He stares at it, shocked and confused. When did Richie make this playlist? Eyebrows furrowed, Eddie grabs his headphones and plugs them into his phone before opening the playlist and clicking on the first song, shoving the earbuds in his ears just in time to hear the opening instrumental. He doesn’t bother looking at the other songs on the playlist yet, instead focusing his eyes on the title of the one currently playing — _I Like You_  by dandelion hands — as he listens intently. It’s a fairly gentle sounding song, soft vocals paired with soft instruments. What gets him, though, are the lyrics.

 _I hope I’m not stuck on your waiting list_  
            _Because I dream of you in colors that don’t exist_  
            And I think it's high time for you to know  
            I like you, I like you, I like you  
            And I hope you like me too

            It’s clear that this playlist is for someone specific — if the name wasn’t enough, this song is making it pretty clear, and whoever it is is obviously a romantic interest. The thing is, though, that Richie hasn’t shown any noticeable interest in anyone. Eddie can’t help but to think that, maybe, possibly, it’s him, but he chooses not to get his hopes up as the next song,  _Asleep_  by The Smiths, comes on.

            This song is a lot... heavier, in a way. It’s still soft, but it’s also sad. The line that really sticks out to him is _I don’t want to wake up on my own anymore_. Is this Richie saying that he’s lonely, or is Eddie looking way too into this? Perhaps it’s neither, or perhaps it’s both. Either way, though, Eddie is properly intrigued by this playlist. Eagerly, albeit anxious as well, he listens to  _Asleep_  again before letting it switch to the next song.

 _Dreaming of You_  by Cigarettes After Sex. This one is a little strange, but still pleasant. It has a kind of eerie feeling to it, oddly, yet the lyrics are very sweet. Again, Eddie replays the song, still trying to piece together who this playlist could be for while actively trying not to get his hopes up thinking it could be him. The next song is, ironically (or intentionally?), named  _For You_. It’s significantly more fast-paced than the previous ones, louder and easy to bob your head along with. The meaning is pretty clear, stated right in the lyrics — _everything I do, every little thing I do, for you._

            Eddie is both pleasantly surprised and a little panicked when  _A Shitty Love Song_  comes on next. Pleasantly surprised because he already knows and loves it; a little panicked because the lyrics say  _I think I’m in love with you_  and, if this playlist is for someone else, that’s going to hurt like a bitch. Despite that, though, he listens to the whole thing with a small smile on his face, still trying not to get his hopes up, just in case.

            But then  _Eddie My Love_ by The Teen Queens comes on next and, well- shit. Yeah, okay, that makes it pretty obvious who the playlist is for.

            Jaw dropped, Eddie sits frozen, shell shocked, as the song blasts loudly in his ears. He doesn’t make a move once it ends, instead letting the playlist repeat.

_Is this real?_

            He thinks he must be dreaming, because there’s no way Richie actually made a playlist for him, right? Like- okay, sure, he’d been hoping the whole time he was listening to it, but he didn’t really think it could be true. But it is, it has to be, because who the fuck else could the song Eddie My Love be about? Unless Richie knows someone else named Eddie that he just hasn’t mentioned, the answer is pretty fucking clear.

            Grinning, Eddie snaps out of his shock and restarts the playlist, soaking in every single lyric and trying to pinpoint the meaning behind every song. They’re a bit abstract, but the gist is basically that Richie likes Eddie a lot — even, possibly, thinks he’s in love with him? Which is, wow.  _Wow_. Okay. Holy fucking shit.

            This is, he thinks, the best fucking day of his life.

            With determination burning within his chest, he finally backs out of the playlist and starts finding the songs that make him think of Richie. It takes all night, but eventually he has his response, his own playlist made for the other boy.

            [**_from me_**](https://open.spotify.com/user/httpariona/playlist/3FBeCEG65rkFRnHBrmgxP5?si=WHaBaTV_SXizZWum0MT0yw)

 

 

 

 

            The flaw in his plan is that Eddie has no way of knowing whether or not Richie has seen the playlist.

            It’s been on his mind constantly since he made the damn thing, every second of every day filled with has he seen it and will he like it and should I just delete it? More than once, he wonders if he’s losing his mind from stressing about it so much. He’s been so focused on the playlist that he hasn’t even stopped to think about how he wants to tell the losers about his decision to stay.

            He’s fucked, really. He’s at a high school prom and he’s completely and utterly fucked.

            Fan-fucking-tastic.

            “Hey, Prince Charming,” Beverly says, falling into the seat next to Eddie with a grin. She looks stunning, of course — her hair, now just past her shoulders, is a perfect balance between styled and natural, loose red ringlet surrounding his face in a soft halo. Her dress, which she had indeed made herself, is a deep charcoal black with accents of what’s somehow an even darker shade of black, the material soft and form-fitting. She doesn’t have a lot of makeup on, but the mascara coating her eyelashes paired with the highlighter on her cheekbones reflecting the light beautifully makes her look absolutely gorgeous, more so than usual, somehow. “Don’t look so glum,” she goes on, winking. “You have a hot date.”

            Richie glares at her from his seat across the table, though Eddie can’t help but to agree — Richie’s clad in a plain black suit and tie, but somehow it compliments his glasses in a way that makes all of his features look more angular than usual, his own curls falling into his face as he huffs and looks at the table. “I know,” Eddie responds, grinning when he sees the small hint of a blush on Richie’s cheeks afterward, mostly hidden by the dim lighting in the room.

            “You’re one to talk,” Richie grumbles, barely audible. He shakes his head, looking confused, and adds, “That was supposed to be, like, insulting or something, but it just ended up being a compliment.”

            Eddie snorts. “Good job, dumbass.”

            “Stop flirting,” Beverly interrupts, clearly amused as both Richie and Eddie glance away awkwardly. “Come on, you two need to chill out and dance with us! Get on your feet!” She stands then, grabbing the two of them by their wrists to drag them onto the dance floor. “Loosen up a little! Have some fun!”

            Avoiding each other’s gazes, they reluctantly let her pull them along. Everyone cheers when they join, all eight of them (Audra has joined them, due to being Beverly’s date) forming an odd misshapen circle of flailing limbs and loud singing. Eddie still feels stiff and nervous ( _the playlist, Richie, the playlist, the playlist, Richie, Richie, Richie_ ), but as time goes on and the music echoes around the room he finds himself relaxing, laughing at the ridiculous dance moves that everyone else is pulling. The only people out of them that can somewhat dance well are Mike and Beverly, but they’ve both thrown their talent into the wind for the sake of looking like idiots with everyone else.

            Eddie looks to his left and sees Richie doing sort of weird shimmy, his hips swaying off-beat and his glasses slipping down his nose. He looks fucking stupid, but Eddie grins, his heart pounding in his chest at the sight. There’s a certain kind of peace settling over him, and he knows that this is where he belongs — with all of them, but especially with Richie. He can’t imagine ever going back to the Kaspbrak kingdom and giving up the opportunity to grow old with the loser’s, making memories that he’ll always cherish.

            The music switches, suddenly, and Eddie is still watching Richie, who is now watching Eddie as the beginning of a slow song settles across the room. Everyone around them shifts instantly, finding a friend to cling onto, holding their partners close and swaying. Bill subtly pushes Eddie forward and murmurs, “Don’t leave him hanging,” into his ear. From over Richie’s shoulder, Beverly winks.

            Shit. Okay. He can do this.

            Swallowing thickly, Eddie steps forward until he’s directly in front of Richie, both of them staring at one another with wide eyes. Wordless and timid, Richie reaches forward, settling his hands on Eddie’s hips in uncertainty, as if afraid that he’s doing the wrong thing. Smiling nervously, Eddie brings his own hands up to wrap around Richie’s shoulders, clasping behind his neck. He’s not sure if this is really the proper way to slow dance with someone, but he can’t be bothered to care as they start to sway, the silence between them filled with whatever love song is one. Eddie’s never heard it before, though it still somehow sounds familiar, in a way. Probably because it sounds a lot like a million other love songs, but it also doesn’t sound like anything he’s ever listened to before.

            Richie’s mouthing the lyrics, so it’s obvious he knows what it is. Curiosity peaked, and desperate to say something, Eddie asks, “What song is this?”

            “ _Homesick_ ,” Richie answers instantly, a far away look in his eyes, looking sheepish. “It’s by Dua Lipa. It’s, uh- it’s alright.”

 _You give me a reason, something to believe in_  
            _I know, I know, I know_  
            You give me a meaning, something I can breathe in  
            I know, I know, I know

            Eddie feels his cheeks heat up as he listens to the lyrics. “It’s pretty.”

            Richie nods, casting his gaze to the floor. He doesn’t respond, instead just pressing his lips together, his fingers twitching and fidgeting against Eddie’s hips. There’s a tense feeling in the air, almost suffocating, getting heavier with every breath they take, but they don’t acknowledge it. Instead, they continue to sway, blending into the crowd of students, looking as if the world around them doesn’t exist, and maybe it doesn’t. Maybe, right now, it’s just them, both too afraid to address the elephant n the room, Eddie getting stiff and anxious again as Richie fidgets more and more, a wild look in his eyes like he’s about to lose his mind.

            Breathing in deeply, Eddie starts to say, “Richie–”

            “Do you wanna go outside?” Richie interrupts, his voice sounding kind of strained. “It’s- I mean- it’s just kind of stuffy in here, and–”

            “Okay,” Eddie agrees, nodding as he retracts his hands, Richie’s arms falling from his hips. “Yeah. I could use some fresh air.”

            Relieved, Richie murmurs an okay, tentatively taking Eddie by the hand to lead the way as they weave their way through the crowd, mumbling out apologies when they accidentally nudge bump or nudge the people they’re walking by. It feels like hours have passed before they push through the doors to the school, simultaneously taking a deep breath of the crisp evening air to try and calm their speeding hearts.

            Richie drops Eddie’s hand to reach into his pocket and take out a cigarette and a lighter. Frowning, Eddie watches as he lights it, knowing that he only smokes when he’s feely stressed or overwhelmed. Is something wrong? Eddie just kind of thought that they were both nervous, but now that Richie’s smoking, he’s starting to think that he assumed wrong. Did he fuck up? If he did, when? How can he fix it?

            In the midst of his panicking, Eddie doesn’t see as Richie also takes out his phone, gnawing on his lower lip as he unlocks it, determination in his eyes. He hesitates after pulling open what he was looking for, terrified that this may not go how he hopes it will, that maybe he’s wrong, but he shoves his doubt aside and presses play.

 _First Day Of My Life_  echoes around them, filling the silence. Eddie blinks, shocked as he looks up at Richie.

            This is the first song on _from me_.

            He can’t think of anything to say, so he opts to stay silent, staring wide-eyed at Richie, who only takes a slow drag of his cigarette as he looks at the ground, swaying side to side with the music. Eddie thinks his heart is about to jump out of his chest with how hard it’s pounding.

            They both stand in silence, listening as it goes to the next song, and then the next, until eventually all six songs have played and Eddie’s holding his breath anxiously, the anticipation killing him. The playlist starts to repeat. Richie makes no move to speak, looking somewhat choked up, as if he can’t bring himself to say the words he wants to quite yet. Unable to stand it anymore, Eddie hoarsely murmurs, “I was wondering if you’d found it yet.”

            Richie jumps, not expecting either of them to talk yet, and lets out a strained laugh. He swallows the lump in his throat, knowing that he has to talk now, knowing that he can’t get away with staying quiet anymore. Taking a deep breath, he replies, “I’m assuming this means you found the one I made.”

            “That I did,” Eddie nods, his fingers twisting together nervously. Feeling sheepish, he asks, only half joking, “It was meant for me, right? I mean, the last song literally has my name in it, but if I was wrong just let me know–”

            “It‘s definitely for you,” Richie interrupts, looking almost afraid at the idea of Eddie thinking otherwise. Then, looking down at his hands, song switching to  _Wake Up_ by Bleachers, he mumbles, “Is, uh- this is for me?”

            Eddie can’t help but to grin. “It’s for you,” he tells him. “Who the hell else would it be for?”

            Finally, Richie starts to relax, stubbing out his cigarette on the front steps of the school. “I dunno,” he jokes, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I think Bill, Mike and Stan would take you in if you asked.”

            “Oh, fuck off,” Eddie laughs, rolling his eyes.

            Richie chuckles, but his features are still twisted up in worry, lips twitching down into an uncertain frown. Just as Eddie is about to ask what’s wrong, he asks, “What does this mean, then? Are you- are you gonna stay?”

            “Oh!” Eddie exclaims, feeling like an idiot. “Jesus, I’ve been trying to figure out when to tell you, I can’t believe I forgot!” Shaking his head at himself, he answers, “I decided like, a week ago, but- yeah. Yeah, I’m staying. I want to stay.”

            “Are you sure?” Richie questions, though he’s already grinning, all fear and uncertainty gone as he takes a small step forward, slipping his phone into his chest pocket as the beginning  _Velvet Sheets_ rings out into the night.

            Eddie nods. “Honestly? I’ve never been more sure of anything else in my life.” Copying Richie, he takes a step forward, his face angled up so that they’re nose-to-nose. Glancing back and forth between his eyes, Eddie breathes, “This is home, Rich. With the loser’s, and with you. I never want to leave.”

            An odd noise, both joyful and somewhat desperate, escapes from the back of Richie’s throat as he lurches forward, ghosting out a, “ _Oh, thank god_ ,” before they’re kissing. Eddie brings his hands up, one clutching onto Richie’s shoulders while the other curls around Richie’s neck to run through the hairs at the nape of his neck, whilst Richie settles one hand on Eddie’s hip and uses the other to cup Eddie’s face, thumb rubbing gingerly at his cheek.

            It’s a sweet kiss, not rushed or heated, all slow movements and happy sighs into one another’s mouths. When they pull away, they’re both breathless and grinning, leaning their foreheads together. The music runs over them peacefully, and Eddie feels so much love in his chest at that moment that he could cry.

            “So, no offense,” Richie says suddenly, pulling back with a grin, “but if you’re gonna be my boyfriend, you have to ask Stan for permission. It’s the rule.”

            Eddie crinkles his nose, laughing. “Who said I want to be your boyfriend?”

            Feigning a heartbroken expression, Richie wipes away a nonexistent tear and sniffles, saying, “Well, fine! I’ll just send my playlist to Nick Madsen and see if  _he’ll_  return my love–”

            “You’re an asshole,” Eddie snorts, leaning up to capture his lips in another quick kiss. When he pulls back, Richie’s features are slack in awe, making Eddie giggle as he backs away and grabs him by the hand. “Let’s go.”

            “Go where?” Richie asks, taking his phone out to turn off the music before letting Eddie lead him back inside.

            Eddie grins, tugging Richie down the hallway excitedly. “To ask Stan if I can be your boyfriend. Which, by the way, means you should probably ask Ben.”

            “Aren’t we supposed to ask each other first?” Richie questions, amused.

            “Not in this family,” is all Eddie tells him. He comes to a stop just outside of the doors leading to the dance, the music from inside barely muffled. Unable to help himself, he steals another kiss and says, “When we do, though, I’ll say yes.”

            Richie sighs happily, resting his forehead against Eddie’s, and murmurs, “Me, too.”


	3. after

            “How bad is it?”

            Richie shrugs, trying not to wince at the way the simple movement makes his shoulder ache. His legs are dangling over the edge of the counter, his jeans damp from the rain they had to wait in until Bill had finally managed to figure out how to buzz them into his apartment building using the intercom. “It’s not that bad,” he tries to reassure, but the strain in his voice gives him away.

            An alarmed noise comes from the back of Eddie’s throat, who’s standing between Richie’s legs with his hands cupping Richie’s face, eyes wide and concerned. “Not only is that already an obvious lie,” he says, frowning, “but I would have seen your eyebrow twitch if it wasn’t. Be honest. What hurts?”

            Sighing, Richie admits, “My eye and my lip, mostly, but my shoulder’s kinda sore from hitting the wall.” Eddie hums, his brows drawn together slightly as he gently swipes his thumb under Richie’s right eye, where the bruising is just beginning to show. Richie flinches at the pressure, offering a wobbly smile as he murmurs, “I’m sorry it didn’t go well.”

            “Are you kidding me?” Eddie asks, an incredulous look on his face as he shakes his head, pulling away slightly to meet Richie’s gaze. “It went better than I expected, honestly. I mean, yeah, I would have preferred no violence, but...” he trails off, expression fond as he leans in to give Richie a quick (and extremely careful, due to his busted lip) kiss.

            Richie hesitates. “You’re not upset?”

            “I’m mad at him for hitting you before really listening to us,” Eddie tells him, tilting his head up to examine his lip a bit more closely. “But I think he’s coming to his senses, which is exactly what I wanted.”

            There’s a look of awe on Richie’s face again, the same look that he’s worn time and time again over the last four months, as if he can’t really believe that Eddie’s real. With the awe, though, is worry. “What if he isn’t?” he asks.

            “Then he loses you,” Eddie says, running a hand through Richie’s hair before picking up the damp rag off the kitchen counter and dabbing at his lip, trying to get rid of the blood smeared across his chin. “You told me a few months ago, and you told him today. If he doesn’t get his shit together, he loses you.”

            Genuine fear takes over Richie’s face, making his lower lip tremble and his eyes water. “What if that’s not enough? What if... what if he’s okay with losing me?”

            Instantly, Eddie drops the rag back onto the counter, taking Richie’s face in his hands once more and meeting his gaze sternly. “Listen to me, love,” he breathes, wiping gingerly at Richie’s cheeks as a few stray tears fall. “If he’s okay with losing you, then he’s the dumbest man to ever exist, okay? You’re the textbook definition of the person son, and anyone else would have given up on him by now, but you’re still here trying to get him back. Do you realize how incredible that is, Richie? You’re still willing to fight for him, even though he doesn’t deserve it after everything he’s done.”

            “It’s not his fault,” Richie defends weakly, his features scrunching up slightly. “After losing Mom- he- he lost himself when he lost her–”

            “I know, baby,” Eddie soothes, bringing back one hand to run through Richie’s hair again, knowing that it helps calm him down. “I know, but that doesn’t make it okay. You know that doesn’t make it okay.”

            Richie exhales slowly, shaking his head to himself as his shoulders sag. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “This isn’t how your birthday should have gone.”

            With a snort, Eddie points out, “I almost burned the house down on your birthday.”

            This makes Richie chuckle, the corners of his lips tugging up into a smile. “Yeah,” he shrugs, “but it was a cute idea. Besides, the candles looked beautiful before you knocked one over and caught the curtain on fire.”

            “And they say romance is dead,” Stan fake swoons as he walks into the kitchen, an ice pack in hand. He gives it to Eddie, who instantly wraps it in a paper towel before carefully pressing it against Richie’s eye. “So, do we get to know what happened yet?”

            Eddie looks at Richie, who offers a stiff nod, before answering, “Yeah, but can you bring everyone in here? It’s a lot easier to look at his wounds like this and I want to make sure the bleeding stops.”

            Stan agrees with a, “You got it, boss,” before leaving, coming back mere moments later with the rest of the losers trailing behind him. Richie looks around at them anxiously, already feeling overwhelmed by the amount of people in the room, but Eddie places a hand on his knee and reminds him to breathe. It’s been a few months since they started working on this, and it’s a slow process, but he’s getting better. After everyone settles into chairs at the dining table, they look at Eddie expectantly, knowing that Richie won’t be ready to speak for himself until he fully relaxes, which usually takes a few minutes to do.

            “So,” Eddie starts, taking a moment to pull the ice pack away from Richie’s eyes, pleasantly surprised to see that the swelling is already going down. It’s still gonna bruise, no doubt about that, but still. “Richie tried to talk to Went about how he’s been a shitty dad for the past few years. It went pretty well, actually.”

            Beverly snorts. “Really? ‘Cause from here it looks like Richie got a black eye.”

            “And a busted lip,” Eddie nods, “but yeah, I’m being serious. He was kind of out of it, so he decided to throw punches instead of listening, but after a few minutes he calmed down. I don’t know if this’ll actually change anything, but we told him that we got an apartment here and that we’re moving out next week. Richie said that it’s up to him after that if he wants to stay in his life, and that if he does then he has to get his shit together and be a real parent again.”

            Richie still isn’t ready to talk yet, but his lips twitch into a smile at the grin that Eddie gives him. Mike whistles, his eyebrows raised, and asks, “How’d he take it?”

            Humming, Eddie waits until after he’s cleaned the rest of the blood off of Richie’s lip before answering, “Like I said, I don’t know if this’ll change anything, but I got the feeling that he was really listening. He started crying before we left.”

            “Holy shit,” Bill breathes, looking both impressed and proud. “You really said all of that, Rich?”

            All eyes turn to Richie, who fidgets slightly but manages to keep himself calm as he nods and says, “I mean- not as elegant, obviously, but yeah. Yeah, I did.”

            “It was definitely the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” Eddie jokes, but there’s a glint in his eyes that shows he means it. Seeing Richie standing there, no longer afraid of his father, defending himself and demanding that he deserves better... it was a gift that Eddie got to witness such a groundbreaking moment, even more so because he knows he helped get Richie to this point. He knows that, throughout the past eight months that they’ve known each other, and especially in the past four months that they’ve been dating, he has helped Richie and Richie has helped him.

            Even in such a short amount of time, they’ve managed to strengthen one another.

            He’s never been more grateful for anything in his life.

            Richie rolls his eyes, his smile widening as he shakes his head. “Fuck off, Kaspbrak. And I got you a real present, by the way.”

            “We all did,” Ben says, pushing himself to his feet and holding out a wrapped box that seems to appear out of thin air. Suddenly, the other four pull out presents of their own, also seemingly out of no where, and extend them out in his direction.

            Richie blinks, looking just as surprised by this as Eddie is. “Okay, I wasn’t involved in this plan,” he mumbles, eyes wide. “I left your present at home.”

            Grinning, Eddie shakes his head, going back to examining Richie’s face — there’s a second bruise high in his cheek, Eddie notices, that’s just beginning to appear in a light-yellow discoloration. “Presents later,” he instructs, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the tip of Richie’s nose, giggling as Richie crosses his eyes to look down at him. “I know there’s a cake around here somewhere, and I’m fucking starving.”

            As the rest of the losers move around them, piling the gifts onto the dining table before pulling out the food they had prepared beforehand, Richie ducks his head to look Eddie in the eyes. Still doubtful and anxious, he asks, “You really aren’t upset about how today went? I mean- I had so much more planned, and I wanted to make it amazing–”

            ”Richie,” Eddie interrupts, his face melting into a fond look as he shakes his head once. “All I really wanted was to spend the day with you and the losers, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.” Eyes full of an intense sincerity that makes Richie’s heart skip a beat, Eddie softly promises, “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had, bruises and all.” 

**Author's Note:**

> THAT’S IT!! THAT’S THE FIC!!  
> i spent so long on this, i’ve been teasing at it on tumblr for like two weeks and i’m so happy that it’s DONE and that i actually LIKE IT!!
> 
> please tell me what you think!! i’m quite proud of this and i hope you like it(: feel free to hmu on tumblr sometime, if you want!! (sunsetozier, just like on here)


End file.
